


Just Remember Me When

by DasWarSchonKaputt



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Veronica Mars Fusion, Bullying, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Kurt Hummel-Centric, M/M, Mystery, Oh Goodness All The Revenge, Past Character Death, Past Kurt and Quinn Friendship, Past Rape/Non-con, People Are Shitty, Revenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-02-21 04:47:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2455250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasWarSchonKaputt/pseuds/DasWarSchonKaputt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Welcome to William McKinley High School. If you go here, your parents are either millionaires, or your parents work for millionaires.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>A year ago, Kurt Hummel lived a charmed life. He had it all: the best friend, the coveted spot on the school cheerleading squad, the social status. Then everything fell apart. Suddenly, his best friend was dead, his social status falling to tatters and he was quitting the Cheerios. He became a pariah.</p><p>Enter the new kid, who's managed to make almost as many enemies in his short time in Lima as Kurt himself.</p><p> </p><p>  <b>You do not need to have watched Veronica Mars to read this fic.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If this is familiar to any of you, it's because it's a nice rewritten, edited version of one of my earlier works. Heed the warnings in the tags, please. If it happens in Veronica Mars canon, it happens here.

The kid is – well, Kurt wants to say pasty, but at the moment naked might just be a more accurate descriptor. Blond hair sits on a head that refuses to drop, chin jutting out in some false illusion of dignity.

It’s unfortunately not a new image for Kurt – a kid duct-taped to the flag-pole in the parking lot outside school – and it says a lot about McKinley as an institute of education that its students’ primary reaction is to whip out their cell phones and pose for a selfie. There’s a misspelled word scrawled across the kid’s chest in Sharpie, _SNICH_ , and the contents of a slushie have been tipped over his way-too-bright-to-be-natural blond hair.

He must be new, Kurt’s mind supplies helpfully. Anyone who’s been at McKinley longer than a day knows not to piss off the bikers as a matter of survival.

As some asshole in a graphic T-shirt hops up to pose for what will probably become his new Facebook status – _public humiliation FTW!_ – Kurt sighs. McKinley is such a shithole sometimes.

“Move,” Kurt commands the asshole in the T-shirt.

T-Shirt Guy startles, head whipping around, arm still extended for prime selfie-capture, before he sneers at Kurt. “Who died and made you que—”

But the retort drops off the moment Kurt pulls a penknife from his bag and flicks the blade open.

“Freak,” T-Shirt guy mutters, but he backs off.

Kurt approaches New Kid, who’s abandoned his efforts to look anywhere but at the crowd in order to stare bug-eyed at Kurt, gaze fixed apprehensively on the penknife. Kurt rolls his eyes and makes a point of placing the blade on the reams of duct-tape keeping New Kid in place.

The school bell rings and behind him, Kurt can feel the crowd start to dissipate. He’s minutely thankful – he’s not the type to like having an audience.

“New here?” Kurt asks, looking up the kid’s – admittedly _ripped_ – chest to meet his eye.

New Kid nods.

Kurt resists the urge to roll his eyes. “You got a name, then, Bottle-Blond?”

“Sam,” comes the reluctant reply. “Sam Evans.”

“Well then Sam Evans,” Kurt says, smiling sardonically up at him. “ _Welcome_ to McKinley High.”

* * *

 

William McKinley High in Lima, Ohio is a testament to all the things wrong with the class structure in America. A student at McKinley will fit into one of two categories – their parents are either millionaires, or their parents work for millionaires. The middle class liberal is a dying breed in Lima, and as are the views they come with.

Tolerance? Don’t make Kurt laugh.

Kurt, himself, fits into the second category. It’s a territory that comes with afterschool jobs, a potential college career that depends on academic excellence and the ability to schmooze suitable sponsors, and, of course, the shitty experience that comes from being the bottom of the pile in the high school hierarchy.

When that’s the life you live, though, you learn to deal. Coping mechanisms come in the form of apathy and disconnection – compartmentalisation. You decide what’s worth caring about, and disregard the rest.

So, after cutting down Sam Evans in the parking lot, Kurt drifts through his morning much the same way as he always does now. He slouches in his chair in AP English, dozes off in French III, and snarks back at his teachers whenever possible – a practised amount that is neither charming nor detention-worthy.

It wasn’t always like this, though.

High school used to be Kurt’s _kingdom._ Good grades were effortless, really, and friendship – or what he _thought_ was friendship – came naturally with his social circle. He knew all the right people, told all the right anecdotes; he was going places.

He used to be everybody’s sweetheart.

He fit into a box back then, though. Gay Best Friend – it’s a title he hates as much as he admits necessary.

The cafeteria at McKinley operates on a strict seating plan. Not that Kurt has ever needed to chart it; he’s only ever sat at two different tables in his lifetime. Now, here, he sits in a corner, to the side of the rabble, alone.

Before, he sat over _there._

It’s not really anything special by all appearances, just a table. It’s the people that sit there that makes it important. Mike Chang – the son of one of Hollywood’s most successful plastic surgeons. Rachel Berry – her fathers own half of New York. Finn Hudson – his mother…

It doesn’t matter. The point is that Kurt used to sit there, with those people, a part of that group and he _doesn’t_ anymore, and it was a choice he made and he has to live with it. And it wasn’t ever like his family met the net worth requirement – his dad made $50 000 a year for his position as sheriff – but he was _included._

If he’s honest, though, Kurt knows the only reason he was ever let past the velvet ropes was Quinn Fabray.

She used to be his best friend.

“Earth to Space Cadet – you okay?”

Kurt blinks himself back to the present, to his table in the cafeteria and to his dry sandwich on barely-in-date bread. Sat opposite him, casually unpacking a paper-bag, is Sam Evans. He unwraps an apple, completely oblivious to Kurt’s disapproving glare, and Kurt has to wonder if this kid was born socially-deficient, or if it’s just a product of his upbringing.

“Did I _say_ you could sit here?” Kurt asks icily, channelling as much passive aggression into the statement as he can. Then, it hits him. God, he sounds like one of _them._ “Wait,” Kurt hedges, stopping Sam as he starts to move away. “I’m sorry. Sit wherever you want.”

Sam grins toothily at Kurt, sliding back down into his seat. “That was cool, by the way,” Sam say. “You know, cutting me down. I’m not ready to become an internet meme, so.” He shrugs.

“Don’t mention it,” Kurt says, dismissal clear in his tone. He fingers his sandwich, making a note to start to do the grocery shopping himself.

Sam smiles at him – and seriously, what does this kid have to be happy about? – but the expression drops off his face almost the second Kurt senses someone approach the table from behind him.

“Not sure what you’re smiling about, Big Mouth,” comes a voice. “Way I see it, you forgot to keep your date with me and my boys.”

Kurt turns around.

Noah Puckerman – Puck, if you follow his instructions to call him by his ludicrous nickname – looms over their table like a particularly nasty stain on the otherwise clear blue sky. He’s a self-proclaimed badass, and, if he’s to be believed, fully capable of turning anyone into his bitch with minimal difficulty. When he’s flanked by his skinhead meat-shanks, at least.

“Look,” Sam says, eyes fixed on his apple on the table. “You had your revenge, or whatever that shit with the flagpole was meant to be, so we’re, like, _even_ now—”

“We’re not anything,” Puck snarls. “ _You’re_ a dead man walking, is what you are.”

Sam crumples in on himself and Kurt sighs internally. Sometimes, he thinks of just how much easier his life could be if his father had raised him as an amoral bastard.

“When you’re done with the macho posturing and B-movie one-liners,” Kurt says coolly, “your departure would be greatly appreciated. I’m trying to eat my lunch and the presence of your face is greatly diminishing my appetite.”

It’s almost comical, really, how quickly the dynamic of the conversation shifts the moment the words leave Kurt’s mouth. Both Puck and Sam snap their focus away from each other and zero in on him.

Kurt raises his eyebrows in a sort of _well?_ expression.

It doesn’t take long for Puck to gather his second wind, but he’s off his game ever so slightly. He sneers at Kurt, “If I want you to open your mouth, fag, you’ll hear me unzip.”

Kurt feels a subcutaneous itch at the homophobic slur, but he ignores it. “I don’t know, Noah,” he says. “That’s an awful lot of ‘no homo’ for a strictly hetero guy like yourself.”

“Not so sure you’re not hiding a pair of breasts beneath those faggy clothes of yours, Hummel,” Pucks replies with a shrug.

“Careful, Noah,” Kurt warns. “You go any further with that sentiment and I might start to think you want to see me naked.”

From behind Puck, another mound of academically-challenged testosterone pushes forwards. “Dude, don’t let the ‘mo talk to you like that,” he says.

Kurt merely quirks an eyebrow, carefully daring. “Sounds like your buddy here might want to see it too.”

Sam chokes on his own saliva.

“Well?” Kurt goes on. “Are we done?”

There’s a tension to the air as Kurt waits, dread pooling in his stomach as he realises that he may have pushed this too far. Then—

“Puckerman!”

Everyone freezes.

Kurt turns his head slowly towards the sound of the voice.

Coach Beiste is striding purposefully towards the table, face set into a stern frown. “Practice began ten minutes ago,” she says forcefully. “Unless you want off the team you need to be on the pitch within the next thirty seconds.” She catches sight of the scene before her. “There a problem here, boys?”

Kurt regards Puck coolly. “No problem, Coach,” he says evenly. “Right, Noah?”

Puck straightens himself up. “No problem,” he grits out, before fixing Kurt with a glare. “I’ll be seeing you, Hummel.” He shoots a look at Sam. “Big Mouth.”

And then he saunters off, his ‘crew’ trailing behind him like Peter Pan’s lost boys. As he leaves, Coach Beiste gives Kurt and exasperated look. “Mr. Hummel, why does trouble seem to follow you around?” she asks.

Kurt shrugs.

Then, she leaves and they’re alone at his table again. Sam is staring at him like he’s the Second Coming, or something, and Kurt’s staring back, because he’s suddenly, very, _very_ interested in what New Kid has to say.

“So,” Kurt says, pushing the remnants of his sandwich away. “What did you do?”

Sam startles, but opens his mouth and begins to talk.


	2. Chapter 2

That afternoon in study hall, Kurt stares down at his favourite black notebook, tapping his pencil against the open page thoughtfully.

Sam’s predicament is unfortunate, there’s no doubt about that, but even Kurt has to give it to him. It takes a special kind of skill to manage to piss off both the sheriff’s department and the local biker gang within your first week in Lima.

Sam’s afterschool job – the one that Kurt knew he was going to have as soon as he spotted the somewhat battered clothes he put on – is as a checkout guy at the local _Sack and Pack_ , a convenience store just on the boundary of some of the less pleasant parts of town. As what must have been terribly bad luck would have it, he was pulling a shift last night, when two of Puck’s biker guys wandered in and tried to make off with half the liquor aisle.

So, Sam, clueless kid that he was, pressed the silent alarm, only to find as he walked out of the store to talk to the police, that those two biker guys were a part of a legion of _multiple_ bikers guys, all looking ready to tear him limb from limb. Sam panicked, said they paid, the police didn’t believe him, and now there are two of Puck’s ‘boys’ sat in a jail cell with a security tape of them robbing a convenience store hanging above their heads.

And Sam is now top of both the sheriff and Puck’s shit list.

It’s not an enviable situation, but it’s not exactly terminal either. Puck – despite the loud protests from his report card – is not stupid. He’ll listen to reason, especially when that same reason is dressed up like an offer than cannot be refused. As for the sheriff, well, Kurt has lived the past year on his shit list and he’s still here.

All Kurt needs to do is find something to dangle in front of Puck’s nose, or better yet, find something too big for Puck to ignore, and use it as leverage. Sam gets to walk, all limbs attached.

The question is what…

“Kurt Hummel?”

At the sound of his name, Kurt’s head snaps up. At the door to study hall is one of the secretaries, holding up a pink slip. “Come on, kiddo,” she says cheerfully. “Locker search time.”

Kurt smirks, an idea slowly forming in his head.

This is _perfect._

* * *

 

“Well,” Kurt says as Vice Principal Holliday stares at his locker door, mouth agape. “This is a little embarrassing.”

It hadn’t taken Kurt long to figure out that the faculty’s so-called ‘random’ locker searches weren’t really all that random at all. There’s a pattern to them and Kurt can predict when they’re going to happen down to the last second.

Pasted on the inside of Kurt’s locker, surrounded by a cut-out of a pink paper heart, is Vice Principal Holliday’s photo from the school website. The real Vice Principal Holliday is giving Kurt a look that he’s certain is intended to be disapproving, but it mostly comes across as amused.

Kurt tilts his head to the side and smiles like, _wouldn’t you like to know?_

* * *

 

Where Kurt’s classmates’ afterschool jobs consist of minimum wage and a steady pay-cheque, Kurt’s is a little … different. Not many teenagers can boast a free time filled with trailing philandering spouses and engaging in barely-legal almost-stalking, but Kurt’s life doesn’t really fit to any of the norms anymore.

The offices where Hummel Investigations is based are about as far from classy as it’s possible to get without crossing a line and reaching seedy motel territory. They’re in the less-than-high-class area of town and are pretty small in terms of square metre-age.

It’s really just two rooms – his dad’s office and the waiting area-slash-reception – both of which are decorated like some sort of low-budget 1950s noir drama, contained in a building with a less than stellar exterior.

Kurt pulls up outside the offices and the squints at the car parked in the empty space in front of him. Kurt would recognise that number plate anywhere – well, it’s not exactly subtle.

_FABRAY 1_

Biting down on the wave of nostalgia that threatens to course through him, Kurt focuses on the more pressing issue, notably, what on earth _Judy Fabray,_ of all people, could possibly want with his father.

Kurt traipses up the stairs to the office, pushing open the door to the reception area. The bell above the door jingles as he enters and Kurt ditches his bag at his desk before he glances to the door to his father’s office.

He can hear the muted sounds of his dad and a client talking. It’s hard to make out anything of what they’re saying, even when he strains his ear to the door. He barely manages to pick up the passing vowel sounds of various words.

The bell above the door jingles.

“Kurt Hummel!” comes a cry from behind him.

Kurt startles and jumps away from the office door, trying to disguise his previous actions by picking up some files. “My dad’s with a  client,” he says automatically before he sees the identity of his guest.

James Montgomery, one of Lima’s best lawyers, is grinning at Kurt from the entrance area. He’s still dressed up from work, with a designer label suit hanging off his broad shoulders and an expensive leather briefcase gripped tightly in his hand.

James raises his eyebrows. “Apparently,” he says, taking a seat in one of the chairs. “That’s cool. I’m happy just sitting here and chatting with you.”

Kurt sighs and sits opposite James. “I doubt that,” he states, but leans forward when James places a case file in front of him.

“One of my pro-bono cases,” James explains. “Woman, or, well, some of the time, Tequila Mockingbird, dances down at the Scandals on Drag Queen Sundays.”

“Classy,” Kurt remarks automatically.

James shrugs. “She was busted for trying to make off with a set of satin bed sheets from Sheets ‘n’ Things.”

Kurt gives James an incredulous look.

James smiles, unashamed, leaning back in his chair. “I make no apologies,” he tells Kurt. “I like this case. It’s … unpolished. Seedy, almost.”

Kurt snorts. “Whatever floats your boat, I suppose,” he says, closing the case file. “What do you want us to do?”

There’s an unspoken agreement between Kurt and James. Kurt prioritises James’ cases, and James doesn’t ask how they get done when the only one of Kurt and his father with a private investigator’s license is so often out of town.

“So here’s the thing,” James says. “Tequila says Scandals has an … _interesting_ way of keeping their liquor license, despite their near non-existent ID policy. She wants to cut a deal.”

“Interesting as in _how the fuck does that happen_ , or interesting as in _that’s illegal in most states_?” Kurt asks.

James just smiles.

It’s at that moment that the door to Kurt’s father’s office opens.

Decked out in clothes that probably cost more than the entirety of Kurt’s current wardrobe, and wearing a smile that could freeze _nitrogen,_ Judy Fabray struts out of the office, not bothering to hide her complete and utter disgust at the sight of Kurt.

Judy’s eyes flicker back to Kurt’s father, who is graciously following her out of the office. “I’ll be in touch,” she says. Her eyes fall back on Kurt. “Kurt.”

“Mrs. Fabray,” Kurt replies neutrally.

Judy looks down her nose at Kurt, face full of derision and scorn. Kurt just stares resolutely back, not breaking eye contact. _You don’t scare me,_ he tries to say with his eyes. _Not anymore._

And then, suddenly, the eye contact is broken and Mrs Fabray is flouncing off, expensive high heels clicking on the cheap wooden floor.

James shoots Kurt an odd look, but gathers up his things. “I should be going,” he excuses himself. “Good seeing you, Burt.”

After James has left, Kurt finally allows himself to cast a look to his father. Burt Hummel just shrugs and returns to his office.

Kurt stares at the spot where, just moments ago, Judy Fabray had been.

Sure, Mrs. Fabray is a grade-A bitch, but sometimes Kurt finds it hard to blame her. After all, it was his dad that tried to send her husband to jail for life.

Then again, she was a bitch long before that.

* * *

 

Paperwork serves as ample distraction from the all too vivid memories of Quinn that wash over Kurt at the sight of her mother. It’s not that he wants to forget her – because, God, that just seems like the _worst_ thing he could ever do – but all of their escapades are tinged with too much raw pain for Kurt to deal with.

Right now, tax returns and old case files are far easier for Kurt to face than Quinn’s infectious smile.

The night creeps up on Kurt far too quickly. Before he realises it, Hummel Investigations’ opening hours are over and his dad is exiting his office with a  packed up dinner for them to enjoy together.

Halfway through a bite of a cream cheese sandwich, Burt finally attempts conversation.

“So,” he says. “How’s school?”

Kurt’s mouth drops open, mid-chew. “OK, if you think we’re seriously going to sit here and talk about _school_ and not the fact that Judy Fabray was in your office earlier, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Burt doesn’t give in. “Making good grades?”

Kurt takes Burt’s refusal to speak about it as a confirmation of his suspicions. “Her husband’s banging the secretary, isn’t he?” he asks.

Burt just stares at Kurt, unwavering.

Kurt sighs. “School’s school, Dad,” he says. “Same old, same old. And yeah, my grades are fine. Now, can we please talk about Mrs Fabray?”

“Yes,” Burt says shortly. “She thinks he’s seeing someone. Late nights. Motel meetings. The usual.”

“Sexual appetite?”

As soon as Kurt has asked the question, Burt gets an odd look in his eye. Kurt recognises it as one of the moments when his father worries about ‘appropriate’ parenting.

“Diminished,” Burt answers, albeit reluctantly.

Kurt knows it’s petty of him, but he can’t help but get a little spike of sadistic pleasure out of all of this.

Judy Fabray has always been so very concerned with _propriety_ and _social appearances_ , and how _perfect_ her little family was – and Quinn had always been so concerned with trying to shatter those illusions. Sometimes, when he’s in a dark place, Kurt lets himself think that maybe that’s the real reason that Quinn approached him at school and befriended him. A flamboyantly gay kid in a conservative town like Lima? It was guaranteed to piss her mother off.

But then Kurt remembers Quinn’s fiercely protective side – remembers the vulnerability she showed him – and hates himself just a little bit more for ever doubting his best friend.

So, another crack in Judy Fabray’s all-too-perfect home life somehow feels like Quinn’s legacy is being continued in one of the few ways she would have loved to see.

“Did you take the case?” Kurt asks his father.

“Yes,” Burt admits. “We need the money, Kiddo.”

“Good,” Kurt comments icily. “I would have been pissed if you hadn’t.”

Burt smiles. “I wouldn’t have cared if you were,” he answers, before ruffling Kurt’s hair.

Kurt barely flinches at the contact, and watches as something akin to regret passes over his dad’s face at the interaction. It’s the little things that cut the deepest, Kurt once heard, and this is one of them.

But Burt probably just thinks that Kurt’s sudden distaste for haute couture is a side effect of losing his best friend, and Kurt’s not about to correct that view.

The phone rings. Kurt practically pounces on it, reaching across their picnic dinner and answering it.

“Hummel Investigations,” Kurt says, barely listening, before he hands the phone off to Burt. “It’s for you,” he explains.

Burt takes the phone.

It’s a hit on one of Kurt’s dad’s bail-jumpers, one who is apparently getting dangerously close to the Mexican border. Kurt helps his dad scribble the details down, quashing down the feeling of abandonment that rises within him. This is how they make their money.

Burt dishes out the same explanation to Kurt as always, before tacking on his parental warnings and rules.

“Be good,” he tells his son, ignoring the dramatic eye-roll he receives in return. “Do your homework, don’t stay up late. And, don’t do anything on the Fabray case. I’ll handle it.”

“OK,” Kurt says, but it feels like an automated answer more than anything else.

“I mean,” Burt expands. “Given our relationship with the family, it’s probably…”

“I said OK,” Kurt says once more.

Burt pats his son on the shoulder. “With any luck, I should be back home tomorrow night. If not, the night after. I’ll call and check in.”

Kurt looks up at him affectionately. “You always do.”

Burt sighs. Sometimes, it’s better to face the inevitable. “And, Kurt…”

“Yes, Dad?” Kurt asks, all too lightly.

“When you go after Russell Fabray … be careful.”

Kurt’s smile only confirms Burt’s suspicions. “I always am,” he says.

Burt sighs.

“Dad, I’ll be fine. You’ll be back soon,” Kurt says. “Besides, what’s the worst that I can get up to in a few days?”

Burt sighs again. “I don’t want to think about that.”

* * *

 

It isn’t hard to track down Russell Fabray at his place of work. Fabray Software is Lima’s number one employer, a veritable business giant. Streaming video was developed and perfected at Fabray Software, and the day the company went public, Russell Fabray made a billion dollars.

Everybody, right down to the secretary pool, became millionaires.

The Fabray’s are beloved in Lima. It’s not surprising; half the people in the town owe their fortunes to them.

Kurt watches Russell Fabray stroll away from the darkened offices at Fabray Software, climbing into an ostentatiously expensive sports car, number plate _FABRAY 2_. It’s always been harder for Kurt to mass up hate towards Russell than it is with Judy. Quinn always made it clear he was her favourite parent – not just to Kurt, but to Judy as well.

When Russell starts up his car engine and pulls out of the driveway, it vaguely crosses Kurt’s mind that by doing this, by finding this proof, he’ll also hurt Russell Fabray, not just his wife.

It shouldn’t surprise him that he doesn’t really feel all that guilty.


	3. Chapter 3

Kurt was close to the Fabray’s – a situation that was regarded with envy by many if not all of his fellow Limatites. He and Quinn met on the first day of high school, when some jock threw him into a locker and she helped him pick up his books.

It would have been the perfect rom com meet-cute, if not for the fact that Quinn had a boyfriend left over from junior high, and Kurt was about as attracted to inanimate objects as he was to women.

For a year, Quinn taught Kurt how to command respect. She wasn’t perfect – she held her position as head of the celibacy club for nothing more than the irony of it – and she most certainly wasn’t compassionate at her core, but she was Kurt’s best friend. The captain of the Cheerios to his star performer. She was lively. She was resilient.

She … didn’t deserve what happened to her.

October 3rd started off like pretty much any other day for Kurt and Quinn. Despite the early onset frost, they were putting in hours at a Cheerios car wash in order to raise funds for some charity that the cheerleading squad had decided to sponsor that year.

Quinn was slathering soapy water onto the front of a car in a manner vaguely reminiscent of a Jessica Simpson video, grinning at Kurt as she did so. “I have a secret,” she confided. “And it’s a good one.”

Kurt had raised his eyebrows, beckoning her to expand.

Quinn had just smiled. “Later,” she’d mouthed and then flounced off.

That was the last time Kurt saw Quinn alive.

Later that night, when he was out for dinner with his dad, a call came in over the dispatch. It just said that there had been a disturbance at the Fabray Estate, and the sheriff was needed over there. Burt had told Kurt to stay in the car, but as soon as he saw the crowd of police cars…

Well, he knew that this wasn’t just an average drive-by.

Kurt remembers pushing open the car door and running past the officers on duty. He remembers following the familiar path to the Fabray backyard, spotting his dad and running up to him and—

He remembers Quinn.

Nothing – nothing at all – could have prepared Kurt for that. There was no way anything could have somehow equipped Kurt with the strength to see his best friend with her head bashed in, dead on the cold patio.

He’s tried to block out the memory – to forget the cold, distant look in Quinn’s eyes, to forget the splatters of blood as it pooled out of her head and seeped into her cheerleading outfit – but he just _can’t._

Despite what people say about it getting easier – about it getting _better_ – Kurt knows that can never be the case here. That image – that experience – is going to stay with Kurt for life.

And yet everyone thinks they know this story. The Murder of Quinn Fabray. It made national news. The town flooded with journalists. Everyone wanted a piece of the publicity pie.

And of course, everyone knows the story of the bumbling local sheriff who went after the wrong man. That sheriff was Kurt’s dad.

Just days after Quinn was found, Burt had sat Russell Fabray down in a police interrogation room and told him in no uncertain terms that he was sure he was somehow involved in his own daughter’s murder.

So Russell went to the press – the _adoring_ press – and told the world how much he _missed_ his baby girl, and the horrifying tale of how he had been falsely accused.

The fine people of Lima gathered up their pitch-forks and ran Burt out of office. A new sheriff – Sheriff Figgins, Burt’s old deputy – was sworn in and Kurt found himself facing a choice. Side with them – the _right_ side, they made clear – or side with his dad.

But, it seems that even if Burt wasn’t right about Russell Fabray back then, then Mrs. Fabray is probably right about him now.

Kurt pulls his car up across the street from where Russell Fabray’s car is parked, looking upwards at the neon of the sign announcing the location. Not many high-powered business meetings take place at the American Family Motel at one in the morning.

Kurt reaches into his satchel and withdraws his camera. He brings it up to his face and snaps a few quick stills of Russell Fabray making his way up the steps to one of the rooms upstairs.

The door to room 314 opens. Mr. Fabray enters. It shuts behind him.

And now it’s a waiting game.

Kurt can’t even remember when he started helping his dad out with his business work. He knows it started as a weekend job – getting a few easy bucks for organising his dad’s files – but he’s sure it can’t have taken long for him to get sucked into all of this. At first, the tailing and the photographing – it was all new and shiny. It was exciting and different. It was a distraction.

Somewhere along the line it became an integral part of who Kurt is.

Kurt knows just how dangerously close he came to self-destructing last year. Surviving each day at school had become a chore; it started to get harder and harder to drag himself out of bed each morning.

His status as star cheerleader was still uncontested, but even Coach Sylvester could tell that it wasn’t the same for him anymore. Kurt started dreading morning practices, not just for the stares his squad members sent his way, but because pulling on his uniform was staring to make him feel physically sick, like it was his blood soaking into it, not Quinn’s.

Kurt stuck with the Cheerios and took them to a national victory. Then, he handed in his uniform and quit.

At school, he became an outcast. He was no longer untouchable and he lacked the energy to fight to keep his head above the water. Kurt let himself be beat down, let himself cry himself to sleep at night, let himself _give in._

When someone leaked the crime scene footage from Quinn’s murder onto the web, suddenly, Quinn’s face was everywhere. Kurt couldn’t walk past a computer screen anymore without seeing a group of kids crowded round it, watching in morbid fascination as the camera panned around her dead body.

As soon as his father found out about this, Kurt found himself being forced to see a grief counsellor. It took three weeks of staring silently back at the psychologist before Burt admitted that there were better ways to use their money.

And then, shortly after all that, Burt’s long-term girlfriend, Carole Hudson, broke up with him, and moved out, taking her son, Finn with her.

Finn was something of a sore point for Kurt. Sure, he had been Quinn’s one long-term boyfriend, even if their relationship was decidedly on-again, off-again, but he was also Kurt’s friend. Yeah, he had been hurting from Quinn’s death, but Kurt had been hurting too.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that when given the same choice as Kurt, Finn placed himself on the opposite side.

And, through all this, there was only one person Kurt could count on. It was the same person who had been there for Kurt ever since his mother’s death.

So, of course he chose his dad.

He’d lost everything else.

And Kurt has always been stubborn. So, when Sandy Ryerson, a disgruntled former Fabray Software employee was arrested for Quinn’s murder, he still stood by his dad. When Sandy confessed, he didn’t waver.

He’s not always sure if it was the right choice.

Forty long minutes pass before the door of the room that Russell Fabray disappeared into opens. Kurt immediately raises his camera to his face, ready to snap some shots of Mr. Fabray’s woman on the side.

He doesn’t get much.

Oh don’t get it wrong, he gets plenty of shots of Mr. Fabray, looking slightly more dishevelled than before, but that proves nothing. For all Kurt can say, Mr. Fabray could be running to the American Family Motel to practise aikido.

But Kurt _does_ get a tiny fraction of the woman on film.

It’s just an arm, really, but there’s something distinctly feminine about it – not that Kurt had any doubts about the gender of Russell Fabray’s midnight tryst – and it holds the door open for Russell as he exits.

Kurt bites his lip.

Just as he’s ready to lower his camera and pack in for the night, he spots the car. It’s the only other one in the parking lot of the hotel, bar Russell’s sports car, and with the lens on his camera, Kurt can make out the license plates.

He raises the camera up to his face, twisting the lens into focus, snaps a few shots—

His finger freezes on the shutter button.

Anger boils up within him. This is just so typical. So fucking typical. Suddenly, Kurt’s glad that he’s the one here, the one looking through the camera lens, not his father. He lowers the camera and presses his lips together, hands flexing around the steering wheel.

That number plate – of course Kurt would recognise it. It’s the number plate of the car that picked him up every day from school for over two months, after all.

Carole Hudson.

Russell Fabray’s motel tryst is Carole Hudson.

It all makes some kind of sick sense – why Judy Fabray swallowed her hate long enough to give Burt a case. This has never been about making Mrs Fabray hurt, or about divorce – it’s about hurting Burt Hummel. It’s about stabbing Burt in the gut, about some kind of twisted revenge.

Saying, look, Russell Fabray took everything from you. He took your job, your status and look, now he’s taking the woman you loved.

Kurt’s about to high-tail it out of there when the sound of revving engines makes him glance in his rear view mirror. Five motorcycles, headlights beaming bright in front of them, drive up to Kurt’s car, the front-runner skidding to a stop just metres away from the car bonnet.

The bikers.

Kurt sighs. _His life sometimes._

The leading motorcyclist pulls off his helmet, shaking out hair that he doesn’t have. Noah Puckerman grins at Kurt from his car wing mirror, and makes a gesture akin to winding down a window.

Kurt obliges.

“Car trouble, Hummel?” Puck asks.

Kurt scans the assembled posse in his wing-mirror. Two of the bikers have dismounted and one of them is already making his way over to him.

“Yeah,” Kurt says, not taking his eye off his wing-mirror. “I think it might be a loose belt, actually. If you wouldn’t mind checking under the hood…”

“Hey Puck!” calls the dismounted biker – who Kurt now recognises as Azimio Adams – as he approaches Kurt’s car. “Who gets the first—”

Kurt cuts Azimio off pretty effectively by pressing his favourite taser into the biker’s chest. Azimio collapses on to the ground with a satisfying thud.

Kurt brandishes his Taser, looking them all over, silently asking for their next attempt. No one steps forward.

“You know what?” Kurt asks. “Let’s call it a draw.”

“Oh, it’s too late for that,” Puck says.

Kurt doesn’t back down. “Tell you what,” he says. “Let’s make a deal. You leave that kid at school alone for a week, and I’ll make sure your boys walk.”

“Why do you care so much for that skinny white-boy anyway?” Pucks asks. “The things I hear about _you,_ he must really lay the pipe right.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Kurt agrees flatly.

Just then, Azimio starts to stumble to his feet, clawing up the side of Kurt’s car, but Kurt just buzzes his Taser threateningly.

Puck steps in. “Alright, ‘Z’, we get it,” he says. “You’re a badass. But for once, don’t be stupid.”

Kurt nods appraisingly. “Not bad advice,” he says mockingly.

“All right,” Puck concedes. “One week. But after that, everyone’s fair game.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Kurt states.

“Have fun turning tricks, Hummel,” Puck says before pulling his helmet on and kick-starting his motorcycle. He drives away, his ‘crew’ following him, leaving Kurt alone.

Kurt looks up at the motel once more, and to Carole’s car, before he turns his keys in the ignition and pulling away.

Kurt’s got quite the reputation among his classmates.

Wanna know how he lost his virginity?

So would he.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: **heed the warnings in the tags.**

A month after Sandy Ryerson’s arrest, Kurt had dressed himself up and gone to a party at Santana Lopez’s. He’s not sure what he was hoping to accomplish, maybe to show them that nothing they could do could affect him.

It was a mistake.

Kurt doesn’t actually remember much about the night, except the throbbing music – _I’m gonna give you more, I’m gonna give you more_ – the twinkling lanterns and, of course the drink.

Somehow, in all the craziness of the night, Kurt ended up with a drink in his hand. He stared down at that drink, at his hand wrapped around the red plastic cup, and considered. Then, he thought, _what the hell,_ and downed it in one.

Turns out, it was a basic mix of rum, coke, and roofies.

He woke up the next morning in a guest bedroom, alone, his underpants thrown across the floor, with an ache in his lower back that wasn’t there before.

At first, it had been tempting to cry. He wanted to call his dad, to put his faith in the superhero that had never once disappointed him before.

He didn’t.

Instead, Kurt pulled himself up out of bed, pulled on his scattered clothes, and walked to his car. There was graffiti there – crudely scrawled across her windscreen.

_SLUT!_

_SANDY, IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN HIM._

He never told his dad.

Kurt’s not sure what his father would have done with the information, but he knows that he prefers it this way. It’s not something Kurt particularly wants to open up and dissect, and he knows that he’s never going to find out who did this to him, so he just … let it wither and die. He let Burt put the sudden wardrobe changes and apathy down to grief. He let Burt assume the obsession with showering was some sort of cheerleading practice thing. He just let his father look away.

And, what does it matter anyway?

The Kurt Hummel of old, who cried in between classes in the girls’ bathroom, who walked through a party full of people thirsting for his blood and cowered in fear…

Kurt’s not that kid anymore.

\--

School the next day starts rather spectacularly for Kurt with a slushie to the face.

When he’s rubbed the frozen corn starch out of his eyes, and blinked away the sting, he manages to see the identity of his attacker. Finn Hudson is standing, empty slushie cup in his hand, looking almost apologetic.

But Kurt just feels his blood boil.

Finn doesn’t get to be apologetic. He doesn’t get to be forgiven for this.

Being _sorry_ isn’t good enough, sometimes. It’s not enough to just stand idly by. It’s not enough to feel _regret._

Kurt pushes past Finn and into the boys’ locker room.

As Kurt inspects the damage in the mirror, he’s glad that he stopped wearing designer clothes. His outfit is ruined; his t-shirt is stained red and his dark jeans have flecks of the slushie on them. Kurt is just starting to run the water through in the sink when the door bangs open.

“Hey.”

Kurt looks up and meets the concerned eyes of Mike Chang in the mirror.

Kurt smiles sardonically through the stains on his face. “Can I help you?” he asks pointedly.

“I saw you get – you know,” Mike says. “It wasn’t—what those guys did—that wasn’t cool.”

“Thanks,” Kurt says flatly. “With your added condemnation, I feel so much better already.”

Mike starts to move across the locker room, to his own locker, and he pulls it open with a flare. After extracting a pile of clothes from it, he turns to Kurt. “I thought you could use some clean clothes,” he explains, holding them out to Kurt. “I mean, I’m a bit taller than you, and so the pants might drown you a bit, but we have the same sort of build, right?”

Kurt’s momentarily floored. “Uh, thanks,” he says.

Mike shrugs. “They’re my dancing clothes,” he says, putting them on a bench for Kurt. “I mean, they’re probably not the type of couture I’m used to seeing you in, but they’re clean, I swear.”

Kurt stares at the folded clothes, not entirely sure how to react to this.

“And, Kurt,” Mike continues. “I don’t really get involved with the high school politics much, but I can kind of tell you’ve had it rough this past year.”

“That’s…” Kurt starts. He wants to say something spiteful, something that’ll hurt, but he just trails off. “That’s actually really nice of you, Mike.”

“Come eat lunch with us sometime,” Mike tells Kurt. “Tina misses you.”

Kurt smiles wryly. “I’m not likely to take you up on that offer, I’m afraid, Mike,” he says. “But thanks anyway.”

Mike smiles back.

“I should get going to class,” Mike eventually admits awkwardly. “Are you – are you going to be okay here?”

Kurt feels a full smile work its way across his lips. “I’ll be fine.”

And there’s a certain amount of truth to those words.

\--

When Kurt reaches his table at lunch that day, he sighs. Sam is sat there, already well into his lunch, and when he sees Kurt, he nods at the empty space.

“Dude,” Sam says when Kurt’s sat down. “You should _hear_ what people say about you.”

Sam is staring at him, like he’s waiting for his reaction, and Kurt immediately feels himself close off. “Why are you sitting here, then?” he demands, and Sam seems sort of taken aback by the open hostility in Kurt’s tone.

“Hey,” Sam says defensively. “You sat next to _me._ ”

“This is my table,” Kurt states.

Sam grins. “And what a fine table it is!” he cries, rapping his hand against the table’s plastic surface. “What do you suppose this is? Oak?” Sam shrugs. “Besides, the way I figured it, I can choose my friends. And, between the jerks who laughed at me, took pictures of me, when I was taped up to that flagpole, and the guy who cut me down, who do you think’s gonna win?”

Kurt stares at Sam. There’s an easy sincerity in his words, one which kind of makes Kurt want to open up and trust in this guy. He takes the plunge.

“So,” he opens. “You want to get Puck’s Bike Club off your ass?”


	5. Chapter 5

Stoner Brett is known around campus as a very chill, mellow type of guy. Most people think it’s the weed, and most people would be right. It takes a lot to prompt more than a meagre reaction from him.

Brett all out laughs when he sees what Kurt’s handed him.

“Oh my God,” he chokes out. “This is _so_ twisted. I love it.”

Kurt grins, ignoring the perplexed look Sam is shooting him.

“So, what do you say, Brett?” Kurt asks. “Think you can do it? I’d need it fast.”

When Kurt fell from grace last year, Brett was probably one of the few people who couldn’t have cared less. It’s handy to still have a few allies at school, even if most of the time, this one’s high as a kite.

Sam shoots Kurt another look and leans in to see what Brett is finding so hilarious. Kurt watches Sam’s whole posture shift and the look he shoots Kurt is now pretty much the epitome of _what the hell is wrong with you?_

“Hell yeah, Kurt,” Brett tells him enthusiastically. “For you? Anything. Hey, you know what’ll be cool? Veins. Purple. Thick.”

“Go to town, Brett,” Kurt says.

Brett grins like he’s going to do just that.

\--

Burt arrives back at his and Kurt’s cramped apartment at around six p.m. that night. He’s grinning and waving his cheque in the air like a victorious soldier returned from battle and Kurt can’t help but laugh at his father’s antics.

“You know what we should do,” Burt tells Kurt happily, pointing his fork at his son. “We should catch a Buckeyes match on the TV after dinner.”

Kurt rolls his eyes. “Even if I weren’t busy tonight, Dad,” he says. “The chance of me taking you up on that offer is infinitesimally small.”

“Practising your SAT vocab there, son?” Burt asks.

Kurt shrugs. “Didn’t you hear? Every moment in your life is an opportunity for SAT vocab.”

“So, I think I’m going to skip the responsible parent part of tonight and just go straight to the bit where I show I’m not dumb,” Burt says. “What’s the deal with the Fabray case?”

“What makes you think I even went after Russell Fabray?” Kurt asks innocently.

Burt just looks Kurt over. “Are you seriously asking me that question, Kiddo?” he asks. “I _raised_ you.”

Kurt takes a deep breath. “I think we should drop the case,” he says slowly, waiting for his father’s reaction.

Burt blinks at him. “Did something bad happen?” he asks.

Kurt shakes his head. “Nothing like what you’re thinking,” he says.

“So why should we drop it?”

Kurt bites his cheek. “You know how you sometimes don’t tell me things, Dad?” he asks. “And you just say to trust you? I’m pulling that card now.”

“Kurt,” Burt sighs. “I do that because it’s my job to protect you. It’s not your job to protect me.”

Kurt shrugs. “Doesn’t mean I’m not going to try.”

\--

After dinner that night, Kurt grabs a camcorder from his camera collection and drives out to Scandals. As Lima’s one gay club, Scandals is far from a mystery to Kurt. Quinn had dragged him here for a night on his sixteenth birthday, about a week before she died.

 _An interesting way of keeping their liquor license,_ Kurt remembers, and presses record on his camcorder.

\--

“Whoa, slow down, Speedy Gonzales!” Sam calls after Kurt as he runs up the stairs.

Kurt just grins, before bringing them to an abrupt stop around a corner, giving them a full view of the happenings going on in the hallway.

Standing by his locker, already working through his combo, is Finn Hudson. Beside him are Vice Principal Holliday and a deputy from the sheriff’s department.

“What are we…” Sam starts, but Kurt just shakes his head.

“Wait for it,” he says.

Finn pulls his locker open and stands to the side, stance open, as if he has nothing to hide. It takes a few seconds for him to clue in on the slightly scandalised look on Vice Principal Holliday’s face.

“What is…” the deputy begins, pulling something out of the locker, “…this?”

In his hand is a glorious work of pottery, shaped into a grotesque cock, complete with throbbing purple veins. The deputy hands it over to Vice Principal Holliday, who takes it reluctantly.

“Oh my God,” Sam says from beside Kurt. “That’s a… You put a cock bong in Finn Hudson’s locker?”

Kurt smiles.

“It appears to be a device used to smoke marijuana,” Vice Principal Holliday answers the deputy, looking down at the bong like she can’t even process this.

Right on cue, just as the deputy starts to lead a shell-shocked Finn away, the school bell rings. Students flood out of classrooms and into the corridors. Between the officer with a hand on Finn’s shoulder, the … pottery in Vice Principal Holliday’s hand, it’s not hard for any of them to put two and two together.

“Hudson got busted!” some calls and Finn shrinks in on himself as he’s led away.

Miss Holliday catches Kurt’s eye as she leads Finn away, but it’s unclear what emotion she’s trying to push towards him.

“Okay,” Sam admits from Kurt’s side. “That was actually pretty funny.”

Kurt turns away from Miss Holliday.

“Meet me after school. Let’s see if you’ve done your part.”

\--

The thing that has to be known about smoke detectors is that they do exactly that. Detect smoke – not fire. So, if, say a cock bong had just been taken into the sheriff’s department evidence locker earlier that day, was wired up to produce smoke when commanded to do so by a remote control…

It would be pretty easy to cause the fire alarm to go, right?

And, say, hypothetically, the head of Lima Fire Department owed you a rather large favour, it would be pretty easy to convince him to switch out a tape, of, say, a convenience store robbery, with one of more salacious contents, right?

As he watches the pandemonium unfold, sat next to Sam in his car, Kurt smiles.

But this is all purely hypothetical, of course.

\--

The courtroom is by no means full when Kurt slips in, catching Sheriff Figgins halfway through his testimony. It doesn’t surprise Kurt in the slightest; two boys from the wrong side of the tracks being done with petty theft – it’s not exactly ground-breaking stuff.

Sat with the two defendants – the two ill-fated members of Puck’s bike gang – is James Montgomery, a fact that doesn’t really surprise Kurt either. James has always done a rather large number of pro-bono cases – some sentimental mush about giving back to the community.

Sheriff Figgins stops halfway through a word when he spots Kurt’s face among the crowd of spectators, and the fact that his face alone is enough to throw Figgins off his otherwise smooth testimony makes Kurt smile.

It’s far from _enough_ , but Kurt has learned to take what he can get.

It hadn’t been much to ask – for justice, for the person who… ( _say it, say it, say it, stop hiding in euphemisms, it happened, say it)_ … _raped_ him to pay. Kurt wasn’t even asking for a full blown investigation.

And Figgins had all-but laughed at his face. The words still echo in Kurt’s head, when he’s not together enough to push them away.

_Wouldn’t be a popular move…_

_Too ‘out there’…_

_That really doesn’t mean anything to your family…_

_My hands are tied._

“When we got to the scene, they still had these 40s shoved into their pockets,” Sheriff Figgins goes on when he’s finally found his words again. “They said they paid for them, but we got it all on tape.”

James rises in his seat. “Can we show the tape, Your Honour?” he asks.

The tape plays.

It’s most certainly not of a convenience store robbery.

The camera angle fixes up on the fuzzy and slightly out of focus sign reading _Scandals_ , before panning down to the parking lot below it, where a uniformed officer can be seen taking the hand of a young man in tighter-enough-to-cut-off-circulation leather shorts. He leads him to his squad car and into the front seat.

The unusual couple remain seated for a moment, talking maybe, before the man’s head disappears into the police officer’s lap.

A collective gasp is given out by the gathered audience just as James looks back and catches Kurt’s eye. He shrugs.

James stands. “Your Honour, would this be a bad time to ask for dismissal in People vs. Tequila Mockingbird?”

Kurt makes sure to smile disarmingly at Figgins on his way out.


	6. Chapter 6

This is the thing about Kurt, he supposes.

He wasn’t always like this. He was never vindictive before – at best he was forgiving, at worst, catty – but circumstances change. A year ago, Kurt Hummel would never have even considered pulling any of this. A year ago, though, Kurt Hummel would never have _had to_ consider pulling any of this.

Some things don’t change, though.

Kurt still trusts his dad with his entire being. He’ll never stop believing in him – not even for a second. That’s how it’s supposed to work.

Burt Hummel may have been wrong about who murdered Quinn, but he’s always, always been right about Kurt.

\--

Kurt makes his way up the stairs to Hummel Investigations. His dad’s not working today, but he needs to finish up some expense reports, and he finds it’s easier to face the numbers when he’s still reeling from a personal victory.

There’s something decisively infectious about helping the little guy. Handing over the convenience store CCTV footage to Sam felt pretty fantastic. Watching Sam stare down Noah Puckerman _– “Can I have the tape now?” “Nope.”_ –and refuse to cower in fear felt amazing.

The day’s saved, Sam’s safe and, granted, he may have poured oil onto the fire that is his rocky relationship with Sheriff Figgins, but Kurt wouldn’t have it any other way.

Kurt’s almost finished with last month’s details when his eyes flicker to his dad’s office door.

There are some things Burt keeps from Kurt – Kurt knows that. He knows that his father has this notion that he should protect Kurt from the wider world, the same drive most parents have.

Kurt, though, unlike most children, has an almost insatiable need to _know._

Kurt leaves the expense report open on the desk and enters his father’s office. He walks to the corner and bends down.

16… 10… 03… 09…

Burt doesn’t think Kurt knows where he keeps the combination to the safe, but Kurt’s just never had motivation to use it before. There have been temptations, of course, but Kurt’s always managed to rein them in, thinking, _what would Dad say if he found out?_

The safe pops open.

Kurt pulls open the first file he finds. His blood runs cold.

_QUINN FABRAY MURDER INVESTIGATION_

There are pages and pages of it – coroner’s reports, witness testimonies  – all alphabetised and scribbled on. There are random little notes, like _TOD?_ and _alibi?_

Some of the notes are less than a month old.

Kurt flicks through more pages, pausing when he comes across a picture of Quinn’s room. It’s exactly as Kurt remembers it, from the photo collage they made together, to the backpack Kurt spent half an hour bedazzling for her, to the small collection of trophies that Quinn pretended not to be proud of.

Kurt closes the file.

\--

Some things will never change. Kurt’s still gay – has yet to shake that one, and he’s not trying especially hard to do so – and he’s still his father’s son, unfortunately blessed with a rather warped moral compass.

And he still trusts his dad.

It feels oddly in competition with everything Kurt wants to feel when faced by the murder file he found in his dad’s safe, but Kurt still trusts his dad. And, maybe, if Burt says that Sandy Ryerson didn’t murder Quinn Fabray, then maybe, just maybe, Sandy Ryerson didn’t murder Quinn Fabray.

“Hey, Kiddo.”

Kurt startles a bit at the sound of the voice, automatically closing his expenses file as if it’s shameful.

“What are you still doing here?” Burt asks, moving into the light.

Kurt shrugs. “Just, you know, paperwork.”

Burt moves over closer to Kurt. “That sounds pretty boring. What do you say you and I rent a movie? I’ve made enough from our bail-jumper to tide us over a few weeks.”

“Sure,” Kurt agrees. He stands, picking up his bag, then pauses. “Actually, dad?” he asks. “Let’s watch some football.”

Burt smiles slightly, and ruffles Kurt’s hair.

Kurt may not really get it yet, but he’ll get there.

He’s his dad, after all.

Oh, sorry, was that all too mushy? Well, everyone knows what they say: Kurt Hummel – he’s everybody’s sweetheart.


	7. Chapter 7

“So, let’s talk about Finn,” Quinn says by way of a conversation opener as she takes her seat next to Kurt.

“What about him?” Kurt asks distractedly. He’s quickly rushing through his maths homework – with mixed success – and it’s kind of due next period.

“About how you totally have the hots for my boyfriend,” Quinn elucidates.

Kurt startles up from his homework, but relaxes almost the second he sees there is no confrontation in Quinn’s expression. “It’s just a crush,” he deflects. “I’m not about to mack on your boyfriend, Quinn.”

Quinn rolls her eyes. “Like you’d have a chance,” she says dismissively. “Finn’s pretty much spirit-level levels of straight, unfortunately.”

“More than I needed to know about your sexual preferences, Quinn,” Kurt states.

“C’mon, Kurt,” Quinn wheedles, “you aren’t honestly going to tell me that you’ve never imagined yourself into a little ménage-à-trois to spice up your sex-life?”

Kurt rolls his eyes. “No, Quinn,” he says. “I can quote honestly say that I have _never_ thought about that.”

Quinn shakes her head. “And here I was thinking that you gays were the ones going at it like bunnies. God, you’re such a prude, Kurt.”

“Well, I am chancellor of the Celibacy Club…”

\--

Kurt awakes with a gasp, his alarm ringing loudly in the background.

For a second, he thinks of turning it off and falling back into his mind. It wouldn’t be hard, he thinks, to immerse himself back in the memory of Quinn, to see her again…

His cheeks are wet from tears.

Kurt gets up.

\--

Burt’s an early-riser. He can’t stand the idea of lying in bed all day when there are things to be done, even if it’s something as dull and monotonous as paperwork, and is nearly always possessed with the urge to get up and do _something._

Nearly always Burt ends up reading the paper in the kitchen, waiting for Kurt to come down and eat breakfast before school – which is why he manages to catch his son as the young kid tries to duck out of the apartment early.

“Hey, Bud,” Burt comments from above the morning paper. “You’re heading out early for school.”

Kurt shrugs, pulling on one of his favourite worn-down coats, all the while biting down on a piece of toast. “Guidance counsellor wants to see me before class,” he explains through a mouthful of bread. “She says I’m ‘disconnected and passionless’ – her words, not mine.”

“You in any trouble?” Burt asks, almost warily.

Kurt’s normally very good at, well, not staying out of trouble, but not getting caught at least. Burt doesn’t even want to think about some of the things that Kurt gets up to when he sneaks around, but he does trust his son to come to him if he gets in too deep. It’s one of the few unspoken agreements of their very own, father-son ‘ask no questions, tell no lies’ policy.

Kurt waves his hand flippantly. “Nah,” he says. “She just said she wanted to talk to me about my ‘attitude’ and my ‘schedule’, ‘not necessarily in that order’ – again, her words, not mine.”

Kurt doesn’t seem too bothered by it all so Burt decides to let the matter drop. “I’ll be seeing you at the office after school today?” he asks. “I need you to go over some paperwork for me.”

Kurt taps his father’s shoulder affectionately. “You always need me to go over some paperwork for you,” he points out. “What are you going to do when I go off to college, Dad?”

“Hey,” Burt protests. “As far as I’m concerned you’re never going to grow up. No boyfriends, no college, no moving out.”

“God, you’re like some twisted, paternal version of Peter Pan,” Kurt states exasperatedly, then looks at the time. “I’ve got to run, Dad. See you later.”

Burt watches his son go, smiling at the pang of nostalgia that spreads through his chest.

Kurt has grown up so much in the past year. Between revamping his entire wardrobe barely months after Quinn’s death, to gaining a new, tougher attitude that he wears with pride, sometimes it’s like Kurt’s an entirely different person.

Burt can still remember shouted arguments about ‘toning it down’ and Kurt’s protests that he couldn’t ‘just turn off the gay, Dad – that’s not how it works.’ In many ways, Kurt _has_ toned himself down. He doesn’t dress in quite such an ostentatious manner anymore, but he doesn’t laugh as much either. He doesn’t deliberately go out of his way to confront people on their homophobia – isn’t quite so _in your face_ about that anymore – but Kurt’s extremely confrontational about many other things.

Sometimes, Burt wonders about how much of this was because of _Quinn_ and how much was because of _him._

Sometimes, Burt looks back on it and thinks about what he would have done if he’d known this is what would have happened to Kurt. Would he still have pursued Russell Fabray so tenaciously if he’d known the true price of all of this?

Burt likes to think that he would put his family before anything.

It scares him – really scares him – that sometimes he can’t decide what he would have done.

Normally, though, Burt just tries to block out the past, focusing on the present, on not worrying about Kurt too much.

He doesn’t even come close to succeeding.

\--

_So You’re Disconnected and Passionless?_

_Everyone Hates Me! Social Exile For Dummies_

_Bad Reputations: I’m a Slut!_

Kurt stares down at the pamphlets in his hand, not entirely sure how he’s supposed to react to this. He bites down on his tongue, trying to contain one of many offensive remarks he could make and instead raises his head, meeting Emma Pillsbury’s wide, brown eyes.

“Uh, thank you,” Kurt puts forward hesitantly.

Miss Pillsbury all out _beams_ back at him. “You’re welcome, Kurt,” she says happily.

Kurt quickly tears his gaze away from the pamphlets, reshuffling them in his hands so that the titles are hidden from view.

“So, you wanted to talk to me?” Kurt prompts awkwardly.

Either Miss Pillsbury doesn’t notice his discomfort, or she just plain isn’t affected by it, because she ploughs on with little regard for Kurt’s uneasiness.

“Yes,” Miss Pillsbury says. “We’re worried about you, Kurt. I haven’t heard good things – sleeping in class, talking back to teachers, and Sue tells me that you quit the Cheerios.”

“Sounds about right,” Kurt replies flippantly.

“Kurt,” Miss Pillsbury cautions. “Less attitude, if you would please. I’m trying to help you here.” She smiles sweetly. “I thought we could sign you up for an extra-curricular. It’ll be good for college apps, and I think it may invoke some of your old passion back within yourself.”

Kurt bites his tongue. Forcefully. _Be nice. Be nice. Be nice._

“I’m not re-joining the Cheerios,” Kurt says, and OK, forgive him if it comes out a little strained.

To her credit, Miss Pillsbury doesn’t really react to this news much, apart from nodding pensively. “Well, then, what else are you good at?” she asks. “I mean, with your grades, you could go for one of the more academic clubs, like the Journalism Club…” She trails off when she sees the look on Kurt’s face.

The Journalism Club is quite possibly the one club Kurt will never, _ever_ consider joining. Jacob Ben Israel, the president, is the frontman for everything the club does, and Kurt’s seen him around school, shoving his newsreader-style microphone into random people’s faces. The Journalism Club is the club responsible for the Muckraker – the school’s unofficial blogging site.

Ninety per cent of the stuff on the Muckraker is petty defamation.

The other ten per cent is still defamation, but it’s defamation that makes Kurt want to spork someone.

A month after Quinn’s death, when the crime scene footage was leaked onto the web, the Muckraker started their very own post-mortem dissection of Quinn. Kurt’s under no illusions that Quinn was perfect, but something about going after a _dead girl_ – someone who couldn’t stand up and defend herself – just plain got to Kurt.

If they mysteriously found their entire club archives wiped blank some time last year, then Kurt has _no idea_ how that happened.

“Okay,” Miss Pillsbury chirps. “Journalism Club a no-go. Well, what about photography? I always see you carrying your camera around these days.”

Kurt doesn’t tell her why he carries the camera – that it’s less about a hobby and more about work – but does deflect the idea that he should join the Photography Society.

Suddenly, Miss Pillsbury’s eyes light up. “You sang on the Cheerios, didn’t you?” she asks eagerly, already digging in her desk drawer for something.

“Yes,” Kurt replies immediately, getting kind of desperate to be able to leave and go to class.

“Did you like it?” Miss Pillsbury presses.

“Well, kind of,” Kurt hedges. “I guess?”

Miss Pillsbury finds what she’s looking for, and, with a triumphant ‘aha!’, she slaps it down on the desk in front of Kurt.

“I’m good friends with the faculty advisor,” Miss Pillsbury prattles, “so I should be able to get you an audition even though they don’t usually do them this late in the term.”

Kurt takes a moment to look down at what Miss Pillsbury has handed him – a perfectly kept club-flier.

 _‘Glee Club!’_ he reads. _‘The New Directions.’_

Kurt sighs. “I don’t suppose I have any choice in this matter, do I?” he asks doubtfully.

“Nope,” Miss Pillsbury chirps.

“Fantastic.”

\--

It wouldn’t be unreasonable to expect Miss Pillsbury and Kurt to be far more intimately acquainted. He means – here he is, a veritable treasure trove of psychological issues and teenage angst, enough material for more than one PhD, he’s sure.

That’s the thing about Lima, though. To those rich enough to afford a therapist, Miss Pillsbury is woefully unprepared to deal with their extensive issues. To those too poor to consider it an option, therapy is for the weak.

And, well, when the solution presented is to attend _Glee Club,_ of all things, Kurt can’t help but feel that it wouldn’t have been much help anyway.

Kurt could spend hours composing sonnets on the subject of why exactly he dislikes the Glee Club. Heck, give him a couple of days, and he could produce some haikus too.

For starters, the faculty advisor, Mr Schuester, is someone Kurt really doesn’t like. Mr Schuester – _call me Schue, Kurt_ – is one of those irritating ‘cool’ teachers, who like to think they’re down with the kids. He actually tries to _high-five_ Kurt after his short, private audition, and then spends another fifteen minutes reminiscing about his time as a Tony Award winning performer on Broadway.

Apparently, that’s some kind of theatre-geek language for ‘hot shit’.

Then, of course, there’s always the fact that Glee Club contains a lot of people who probably wouldn’t so much as bat an eyelid at seeing Kurt dead.

“Guys, settle down,” Mr Schuester calls as he strolls into the room, an affable grin smeared across his face. “We’ve got a new member joining us today. And, having heard him sing, I think this one’s a keeper!”

And just like that, Kurt feels himself being dragged into the room and set up in front of the assembled club members. He does his best to look disinterested and just as unhappy to be here with them as they are, all the while trying to get the image of standing in front of a firing squad out of his brain.

Brittany just stares off into the distance, not entirely there. “The position of Keeper in Quidditch dates back the thirteenth century,” she intones.

There’s a momentary break in the reactions of the New Directions, which is mostly spent shooting odd looks at Brittany – Santana just pats the other cheerleader on the knee condescendingly – then, the pandemonium sets in.

Never let it be said that the New Directions are a paradigm of functionality and well-adjusted adolescents – that’s about as far from the truth as it gets. The New Directions – and go on, say that name three times fast, Kurt _dares_ you – pretty much epitomise the word volatile: a group of self-entitled divas, self-obsessed jocks, and over-privileged, under-disciplined halfwits.

And that’s Kurt being nice about them.

So, there’s Rachel Berry – the girl that Kurt wouldn’t put it past to _lynch_ him if he got in her way – and her equally delightful boyfriend, Jesse St. James. They’ve been together two years and have yet to stop trying to get people to pronounce them as some sort of power couple.

Then, there’s Artie Abrams, an AV club nerd, and his weird little attached love-triangle. Rumour has it, his ex and fellow glee-clubber, Tina, ditched him over the summer for greener, and more ripped pastures – another New Directions member, Mike Chang.

After that there’s Santana Lopez, daughter of a hotshot real estate agent, and the girl she’s far too close to in order to be anything less than more than friends with, Brittany Pierce. Santana kind of reminds Kurt of Quinn, just minus the good heart, and with about one hundred per cent more promiscuity. Brittany … well, she’s sweet, Kurt will give her that.

And then there’s Mercedes, a girl whose dislike of Kurt extends far before his fall from grace. In an incident that ended badly for all involved, Mercedes smashed Kurt’s car window through with a brick after he and Quinn sabotaged her audition for the Cheerios.

There’s the quiet kids too – Rory Flannagan, who speaks with a killer accent and can be kind of astute, and Matt, who’s probably said all of three words to Kurt in his entire time at McKinley.

And then, of course, Finn Hudson. Can’t dance for love nor money, but Kurt will grudgingly admit that he can sing. He’s the star quarterback on the football team, but he recently – quite infamously may Kurt add – had to pay several thousand dollars to cover up the fact that a bong – styled into a rather grotesque cock, thank you Brett – was found in his locker.

Not that Kurt had _anything_ to do with that.

“I seriously hope this is your messed up idea of a joke, Mr Schue, because—”

“Mr Schue, you _cannot_ be serious.”

“Aw hell to the no, Mr Schue!”

“This is _ridiculous._ ”

The protests don’t sting in the slightest – that’s not what’s getting to Kurt. He’s long since taught himself not to care what these people think and, after long enough of chanting it to himself, he’s pretty sure it’s true. What gets Kurt, is what this assembled group of teenagers represents.

They’re everything Kurt used to be. Everything he and _Quinn_ were.

Maybe, in some twisted kind of reality, if Quinn were still alive, he’d be sat with them, laughing at the same old jokes, _belonging._

But Quinn’s dead.

And Kurt’s not so sure he’ll ever want to _belong_ to the group every again.

It’s funny, though, how, despite all of their protests, none of them are directed at Kurt himself. In fact, Mr Schue seems a bit taken aback by the resistance to Kurt’s membership, which, Kurt supposes, kind of confirms his suspicions that none of the teachers really have a clue what goes on in their school.

It’s Rachel who’s the first to speak directly to Kurt, but not without a loud argument with Mr Schue, during which she finds herself consistently shot down. Turns out Mr Schue is pretty set on Kurt joining the club and this is non-negotiable, so Rachel turns her head of shiny hair in Kurt’s direction and narrows her heavily made-up eyes at him.

“So help me, Hummel,” she all but growls. “You may be in this club whether I like it or not – and I assure you, it’s the latter – but if you drag us down with awkward dancing from one too many pleasurable nights, I will _end_ you.”

 _You could try,_ Kurt would say, but he doesn’t. Something tells him that sniping his way through his first session of Glee Club isn’t going to win him any more friends, among the faculty or the students. So, Kurt locks his jaw shut. He’s not going to rise to Rachel Berry’s bait, not about to play this game of insults and slurs—

“Kurt, you can sit next to us,” Mike declares loudly, proudly patting the seat beside him and Tina.

It’s a nice gesture – and not one that’s going to earn Mike any points with his friends – and Kurt feels a smile worm its way across his mouth as he crosses the room and takes up residence next to the Asian couple. And, as Mr Schue starts to go on about some 80s rock ballad, Tina looks down at Kurt’s favourite leather boots and asks where he got them.

And, for some unknown reason, Kurt doesn’t feel embarrassed when he admits that he pulled them off the racks from a charity shop. Maybe because Tina – bless her little soul – just grins and calls it retro-vintage.

Not everyone hates him, it seems.

Kurt would have to call that progress.


	8. Chapter 8

Kurt Hummel has changed. Mike Chang knows this.

The process was gradual at first – the sort of thing anyone could miss if they weren’t paying enough attention.

First, came the distance. Kurt stopped interacting with his old friends, stopped sitting with them at lunch, stopped speaking to _anyone_ really. He was an outcast, but it was hard to tell whether or not it was by choice.

Kurt was teetering dangerously close to the edge of _something,_ and though the idea of someone like Kurt breaking makes Mike scared because of what it might mean for someone like him, Mike kind of has to acknowledge that this was probably where Kurt was headed. It’s just… Kurt’s one of those guys – one of those people who always walk with their head held high – who would bend, but never, ever break.

People started laughing about Kurt, then, at the lunch tables. It was all ‘How long ‘till he snaps?’ and ‘How much longer do you think he can last?’ and the joviality of it all kind of made Mike feel a tiny bit sick.

Then came the Christmas break. Mike was off at an intensive dance camp in New York and when he came back, things had changed again.

It was no longer about Kurt, the _persona non grata_ , but about Kurt, _the skanky gay kid._ And Kurt was no longer distant.

Kurt was back with a vengeance. He had a new wardrobe – goodbye to perfectly coordinated outfits with designer labels and elegance _,_ and hello to biker boots and almost vicious jeans and t-shirts – and a new attitude on top of it. When people tried to push Kurt, Kurt pushed back.

It was more drastic, then – the coming change. Suddenly, Kurt’s not just a _skank,_ but he’s a freak – a freak no one wants to mess with. Rumour has it, he’s some sort of P.I. now, and after more than a few unpleasant incidents for some members of the student body, it’s clear that Kurt’s not just getting money shots of the older generation.

It kind of makes Mike fill up with courage, seeing Kurt. Because Kurt gives as good as he gets – doesn’t take shit from anybody, and, well, _why the hell should he?_

Kurt Hummel has changed, but Mike’s not about to judge him for that.

Mike himself has no idea what he would have done in Kurt’s situation. He almost doesn’t want to think about it, because he thinks he probably would have cracked a long time ago. But hey, Mike’s not strong like Kurt. He just … Sometimes, he wishes he was.

So, when Kurt’s stood in front of the New Directions, looking both pissed off and hurt as Rachel tosses abuse at him, and when Tina nudges him with her elbow, gently encouraging, Mike speaks up, making sure his voice is loud enough to be heard above the din.

“Kurt, you can sit next to us.”

\--

“You sing?” is all Sam says in response to Kurt’s long rant about Glee Club at lunch that day.

“I pour my heart out for you, rant for nearly half an hour about my crappy morning and _that_ is what you choose to take from it all?” Kurt asks incredulously. “But yes, I do sing.”

Sam just shrugs. “Just trying to figure out how many stereotypes you fit into is all,” he explains.

Kurt raises his eyebrows. “And _what_ , pray tell,have you got so far?”

“Well,” Sam rubs the back of his head nervously. “I’d say you fit pretty firmly into at least _one_ of the gay kid stereotypes I’ve been fed,” he admits, then slaps a hand over his mouth. “Oh shit, man, I didn’t mean to presume, but, like, people keep saying—”

Sam’s so flustered by the _idea_ that he could have offended Kurt, that Kurt has to fight a smile as he rushes to reassure him.

“Sam, it’s fine,” Kurt tells him. “Trust me, I’ve heard far worse from people that _aren’t_ my friend. Besides,” he shrugs. “You were right. Gay as the fourth of July.”

Sam looks somewhat relieved that Kurt didn’t jump down his throat. “Score one for my gaydar, I guess,” Sam says shakily.

Kurt laughs. “You’re already doing better than me,” he says. “Remind me to tell you about the time I—” Kurt breaks off. “Nevermind.”

Sam looks at him strangely, but doesn’t push. He never does. It’s one of the things that Kurt is thankful for about Sam.

“So,” Sam says, smoothly switching the subject. “I signed up for synchronised swimming today.”

Kurt chokes on his own saliva. “You _what_?!”

“Now, tell me, oh One Gay Guy I Know,” Sam continues, grinning diabolically. “Which would you rank as the ‘ _gayer’_ —” Sam’s voice is laden with irony as he says this word, even going as far as to carve inverted commas into the air with his fingers, “—activity, synchronised swimming or Glee Club? Because, if we’re scoring ourselves, I think it’s only fair I let you stereotype me too.”

Kurt’s momentarily thrown, before he jumps back into the discussion. “Oh, Glee Club, definitely,” he says. “We have the whole theatre thing going for us. Synchronised swimming’s just weird.”

“Say what you want, Kurt,” Sam says with a  shrug. “But the girls on the team are pretty hot. I get to see them in _skin-tight_ swimsuits every practice.”

Kurt snaps his fingers. “ _Just_ when I was beginning to regain faith in my gender…”

“Oh come on,” Sam points out. “Like you wouldn’t take the time to ogle the guys’ abs if you were in my position.”

“Depends,” Kurt says. “Are they ogle-able?”

“I may not be in AP English, but I’m pretty sure you just made that word up, man.”

“You’re dodging the question, Sam.”

Sam just grins at Kurt, telling Kurt pretty much all he needs to know.

Sometimes, Kurt thinks that cutting Sam down from that flagpole must have been the best decision he ever made.

\--

Glee each day is Kurt’s very own special brand of torture. Mike and Tina both do their best to make him feel welcome, but the constant exposure to the other members of the group only makes it all for nought.

Kurt’s been tripped up in dance numbers countless times, ‘accidentally’ knocked into the piano four times, something which the pianist, Brad, doesn’t seem to appreciate in the least, and Mr Schue – dense and _ignorant_ man that he is – either doesn’t notice or couldn’t care less.

Mercedes is more passive aggressive than anything else to Kurt, and Kurt’s kind of prepared to accept that for what it is and be thankful she hasn’t waged war on him, like others in the club.

Others like Rachel Berry.

Rachel seems to have made it her personal mission to make Kurt’s life hell. If Kurt didn’t know better, he would think that she was going for some sort of record on all the different ways to imply someone’s a creepy, dirty slut. She constantly shoots him down, and was the one who pushed Kurt into the piano those four times.

Jesse, like Kurt supposes any good boyfriend, is consistently supportive of his girlfriend’s antics. Kurt guesses that Jesse thinks it’s cute.

Santana and Brittany mostly leave him alone, apart from a few random non-sequiturs from the blonde and more than a few snide insults from the darker girl.

Rory, Matt and Artie all simply don’t speak to him. Kurt doesn’t speak to them either.

As for Finn… Well, Kurt expected some sort of retribution for the whole bong-in-a-locker thing, but it has yet to come. Finn just acts weird around Kurt, almost suspicious, and more than once has Kurt caught the taller kid staring at him oddly.

If Kurt’s skin were even slightly thinner, he may have been hurt.

\--

It’s not easy being an openly gay kid in a town like Lima, in a place like Ohio.

Kurt wasn’t really bothered much at school – Quinn made sure of that – but he still got disapproving looks when he wore things a bit too _out-there_ for Lima. He didn’t really care, though, so when he wore the corset he and Quinn had bought one weekend, he made sure to be _seen_ wearing it as much as possible.

When Quinn died, so did Kurt’s protection.

It really hit Kurt just how much Quinn protected him after her death. He means, he knows he wasn’t exactly the most popular kid after everything, but that’s not enough to warrant offensive graffiti on his locker, or calls of ‘fag’ and ‘cocksucker’ as he walks down the halls.

The kids at school have yet to resort to actual _physical_ violence (due, in large part to the fact that Kurt’s reputation isn’t only for promiscuity) but Kurt’s understandably quite jumpy when random people grab hold of him from behind and pull him into empty classrooms.

Kurt’s first reaction to the snatch-‘n’-grab is to reach into his bag for his Taser, pulling it out and whirling around as soon as he can. Still, he’s not about to just randomly tase every guy who grabs him, mostly due to the fact that if he does it while they’re holding him, he’s going to end up shocked too.

“Whoa, calm down, Hummel! I just wanna talk!”

Noah Puckerman stands in front of Kurt, hands held out in front of him in a sort of ‘stop’ gesture. Kurt surveys him critically, but doesn’t lower his Taser.

“So talk, Noah,” he says evenly.

Puck’s eyes flicker distrustfully between Kurt and the Taser.

Kurt rolls his eyes. “Talk,” he repeats.

There’s a tight anxiety to Puck now and something tells Kurt it’s not solely due to the 50,000 volts of electricity heading his way if he makes a wrong move. Eyes trained on the Taser, Puck speaks.

“Look, Hummel—”

“Kurt,” Kurt corrects.

“ _Kurt,_ ” Puck goes on. “So, look, about that one time I kind of tossed you into a dumpster? I’m really sorry about that, dude, OK?”

“Noah, that was two years ago,” Kurt points out.

Puck shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Yeah, and I’m sorry, OK?” He pauses. “It’s just – Humm— _Kurt,_ I kind of…”

Kurt raises his eyebrows.

“I need your help.”


	9. Chapter 9

“We are talking about the same guy, right, Kurt?” Sam asks. “The guy who just _weeks_ ago duct-taped me, butt-naked to a flagpole?”

“Man, you really hold a grudge, don’t you?” Kurt teases, sifting through the credit card reports Puck managed to hand over to him. “’Sides, this is his mom we’re helping, not him.”

“But you’re doing _him_ the favour,” Sam points out.

Puck’s problem, as it turns out, has nothing to do with his tumultuous reputation. Well, sort of. His mother has been accused of credit card fraud by the rich family whose house she cleans and, unless Kurt finds a way to absolve her of all the charges, it’s most likely that she’s going to end up in jail. And then Puck will end up… Well, Kurt’s not sure where he’ll end up, but the look of fear on Puck’s face is enough to persuade Kurt it wouldn’t be good.

“And then he’ll owe me one,” Kurt retorts calmly. “I don’t know about you, but having the leader of a motorcycle gang owing you a favour kind of seems like a good thing to me.”

Sam holds his hands up defensively. “Hey, I’m just saying,” he says, before collapsing into one of the chairs dotted around Kurt’s desk.

Kurt was at first hesitant to bring Sam to Hummel Investigations, mostly due to the fact that it’s always been something that he and his dad keep to themselves. But Sam’s – well, Kurt thinks that they’re friends, and friends share things. At first, having Sam in the office felt like divulging some huge secret, but now it’s almost normal.

“So what is the deal with this case anyway?” Sam eventually asks.

“Well,” Kurt starts, because he’s not sure how to summarise it all. “Lisa – that’s Noah’s mom, by the way – has been accused of committing credit card fraud against the family she works for, the Thompsons.”

“Anyone we know?” Sam asks.

Kurt shakes his head. “No. They live over in Westerville, so their kids probably attend one of the private schools over that way.” He frowns. “Seems a long way to commute for work, though.”

Sam shrugs, but his expression soon mirrors Kurt’s. “But how can they prove it was her? I mean, it could have been anyone, right?”

“You make a good point,” Kurt agrees, “but apparently they found her wearing a diamond pendant one of the cards was used to buy, so they’re going by that, I guess. And, I never said Sheriff Figgins was a paragon of fairness. My guess is that the Thompsons are pushing for a conviction and Figgins is going for whoever he thinks he can get on the crime, not necessarily the guilty party. The pendant’s pretty damning evidence, though, circumstantial as it may be.”

Sam’s listening raptly. He sits for a while, pondering this all over, before he asks, “So what’s the plan of action, flyboy?”

“Well, all in all, I’m not entirely convinced that Lisa Puckerman isn’t guilty,” Kurt states slowly. “I mean, she’s not fighting the charges, but some of these purchases just don’t exactly scream working class mom.” Kurt points them out on the piece of paper as he goes. “Come on, five hundred dollars to a tattoo and piercing parlour? And three grand on a new motorcycle paint job?”

“Sounds more like Puck, if I’m honest,” Sam comments. “You sure it’s not him?”

“If it was, he wouldn’t come to me,” Kurt answers. “He told me to, and I quote, ‘find the bastard who screwed over my mom.’”

Sam sighs, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. “So, who are the suspects?”

Kurt leans back in his chair, sighing deeply. “To be honest, I’m not entirely sure,” he admits. “I mean, there are the other staff to consider, but ninety per cent of all identity theft is committed by relatives of the victim, so I’m going to be looking into the Thompsons’ children.”

Sam makes a face. “You know, I don’t know why you’d do that,” he says. “Steal money when you have everything you could have ever asked for. It just seems a bit… well, selfish I guess.”

“People are selfish, Sam,” Kurt points out without feeling.

“Not all people,” Sam replies calmly.

Kurt thinks of the day he first came out to his dad, of the tears they both shed when Kurt admitted how terrified he had been, and of his dad’s solid statement. _Kurt, if it’s a choice between you and them, pick you._

Kurt shrugs. “I am.”

\--

It’s been a while since Kurt was last in Westerville and he has to admit, it hasn’t changed one bit. He and Quinn used to drive down to Westerville all the time for shopping, or to catch performances at the theatre.

It is strange, though, to cruise past all of the picture-perfect houses without Quinn by his side, belting out deliberately tuneless renditions of whatever song is on the radio. It’s like going through the motions to a dance routine without moving your legs.

Odd. Empty.

\--

It’s almost ludicrously easy for Kurt to piece the case together, as it turns out.

Kurt’s first move was to track down the Thompsons’ son, David, and after that it wasn’t hard to eliminate him as a suspect. David’s some kind of all-star at his school, a private academy named after John Dalton, and has extensive extra-curriculars. He’s on the debate team, the student council and the soccer team. Between all of these different activities, David’s timetable is essentially one big solid alibi for each of the purchases.

Then, there’s the daughter, Ruth, whose alibi checks out even easier than David’s. She’s at some sort of reform school in Switzerland, and a quick phone call reveals that her internet access has been suspended for over three weeks now, after she broke another girl’s nose in a hallway scuffle.

After that, it’s a matter of following the money.

And the money leads Kurt to the county jail, talking across a tacky plastic table to Puck’s mom.

“Why are you protecting him?” is what Kurt opens with.

Lisa Puckerman has probably seen better days, all things considered. Her hair looks like it’s gone three weeks without seeing a bottle of shampoo and there’s an almost gaunt quality to her face. As for the uniform, well, that shade of orange doesn’t really look good on anybody.

“What are you talking about?” Lisa asks, but Kurt can already see the worry in her face.

Kurt’s expression remains firmly unimpressed. “You know what I’m talking about,” he states, pulling a file out of his satchel and opening it. “Your boyfriend, Dwayne.”

Lisa grits her teeth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she insists.

Kurt raises his eyebrows. “Wow, you could give the guys down at the Leveson Inquiry a run for their money. ‘I have no recollection,’ huh?” Kurt picks up the photos from inside his file, placing them on the table one after another. “Allow me to jog your memory.”

Kurt’s first photo is a shot of a handsome-ish man as he exits a convenience store. “This is your boyfriend, Dwayne.”

Next, is a still of Dwayne getting on his motorcycle, sporting a shiny new paint job.

“He’s kind of a bad boy, but, I guess that’s just ‘cause you’ve kind of got a type, right?”

Next comes Dwayne leering at a skimpily dressed girl in ripped jeans.

“You’re so very _in love_ with each other,” Kurt continues. “He picks you up from work each day. He’s the reason you choose to drive nearly two hours to work each day, instead of working in Lima, and you’ve been thinking of moving in together for a short while. And one day, he surprises you with a beautiful diamond necklace and, you know what? You’re so _in love_ with him, you don’t ask where it came from.”

Another shot of Dwayne, this time showing off the extensive tattoos up his arms.

“That’s the thing, though. You know he couldn’t have afforded it, but you _don’t ask._ Turns out, one day, when picking you up from work, Dwayne sees these discarded credit card offers in the trash. Just call in the confirmation code and start spending! Easy as pie, right? So he starts racking up charges on these cards, not thinking for a second about the consequences. Tattoos, paint jobs, hotels, you name it.”

The last photo Kurt slams down is a copy of Lisa’s mug shot.

“Until it all comes crashing down. And he gets his girlfriend to take the fall for him.”

Lisa remains unaffected by all of this. “You can’t prove anything,” she says.

And Kurt’s lips twist into a smile. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

Another set of photos this time, all of random shop keepers, none of which look all too reputable.

“You see, Dwayne isn’t that bright, is he? He made purchases in person, and let me tell you, a forty-something year old man looks nothing like a thirty-something year old woman, as these witnesses will all attest to.”

Kurt pauses, allowing everything to sink in for a while. “And here’s the kicker,” he goes on. “I get why you did it. I really do. Dwayne’s already got a record and, this on top of it could mean a lot of jail time. This is your first offence. You’ll probably be out of here in six months, tops. Then it’s love, love, love, and a happily ever after for you and your criminally inclined toy-boy.”

Kurt’s mouth sets into a hard line. “But you know what?” he asks. “That’s really, really selfish of you.”

Kurt places one last photo on the table in front of Lisa, before he gets up to leave. As he’s walking away, Lisa’s voice, barely a whisper, cuts into him.

“Where did you get this?”

Kurt turns slowly. “You go to jail, Lisa,” he says softly. “And that’s who Noah – your son – lives with for those six months.”

Mark Jenkins is an abusive drunken asshole. He seems to move from pissed to hungover and back again as his only two acceptable states of being.

He’s also Puck’s father.

Kurt leaves Lisa with the photos.

He’s pretty sure he knows what she’s going to pick.

\--

Kurt gets back home late that night, but earlier than his dad. As he shuffles through their freezing apartment – the landlord is supposedly in the process of fixing the heating, but Kurt has yet to see any progress – he checks his phone, finding the text confirming his suspicions that Burt is, yet again, going to be home late.

After assembling himself some dinner – his dad is out, so he figures now is as good a time as any to crack into some of the less healthy alternatives he keeps hidden – Kurt drops onto the sofa and switches on the news.

He wishes he’d left the TV alone almost the moment he sees what’s on the channel.

Kurt had almost forgotten in amongst all the shit surrounding glee club and Puck. It’s September 28th. In five days’ time, it will be the one year anniversary of Quinn’s death.

Of course the news channels are already drumming up the old specials and news reports – why wouldn’t they? Quinn’s death is the most high profile murder that Lima has seen in … forever, really.

Kurt should switch away from the channel, he knows, the moment he realises it’s about Quinn. He doesn’t though. His fingers twitch at the remote, but he doesn’t let himself look away.

“ _A search warrant revealed a pair of the young Fabray’s shoes in his basement, along with an old jewelled backpack…”_

\--

_“What the hell are you doing, Kurt? If I wanted a bedazzled backpack, I would have bought a bedazzled backpack.”_

_Kurt rolls his eyes. “It looks better this way, Quinn, and you know it.”_

_Quinn rolls her eyes right back at him. “I’m only using it to carry my clothes to your house, Kurt. It’s not like anyone’s going to see it.”_

_Kurt turns his nose up a bit. “Every moment in your life is an opportunity for fashion, Quinn, and I feel insulted you would imply otherwise,” he says._

_“God, you’re like a walking stereotype aren’t you?” Quinn asks, but there’s humour in her eyes._

_“Says the bitchy head cheerleader,” Kurt says with a shrug. “Here, your accessory is complete.” He hands her over the backpack._

_Quinn sighs and takes it. “Can we go now? I don’t want to miss the concert because you were busy being all fashionably opportunistic.”_

_“The concert’s tomorrow, Quinn.”_

\--

Kurt snaps forward and pauses the TV, eyes fixed on the backpack.

Slowly, hesitantly, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his cell-phone. He snaps a picture of the television screen.

He hesitates again, then turns the TV off and goes to bed, dinner forgotten.

\--

Puck finds Kurt the next day at school, stopping the smaller boy in between classes. He doesn’t pull Kurt into a classroom, but does manage to stammer a statement to Kurt.

“Kurt, I just – I owe you one.”

It’s not exactly a thank you, but Kurt will take what he can get.

\--

“Is it a bird? Is it a plane?” Sam quips as he joins Kurt at their table for lunch. “You know, I’m kind of half-waiting for you to rip off a pair of glasses and tear your shirt open, revealing a large ‘S’ on your chest.”

“I don’t wear glasses,” Kurt deadpans from above his cafeteria food meal.

“The point remains,” Sam replies. “Is there anything you _can’t_ do?”

Kurt allows himself a smile. “Well, getting you to leave me alone has always been rather difficult,” he says, tone gently teasing.

“Uh-uh,” Sam says, shaking his head. “The secret’s out. That may play with the masses, Kurt Hummel, but I know you. You _like_ me.”

Sam’s statement draws Kurt up short. For a second, all Kurt can think about is their first meeting, of staring up Sam’s muscled chest, and about the bitterness that all but consumed him back then. Sam, without even realising what he’s doing, is slowly but surely teasing Kurt out of his shell, soothing the anger within him. It’s a healing process Kurt hadn’t even realised was happening.

Right now, Sam is Kurt’s best – if not only – friend.

“Against my better judgement,” Kurt says slowly. “Yeah, I do.”

\--

_“C’mon, Kurt, admit it!” Quinn crows. “You like me, don’t you?”_

No. I loved you.

\--

Kurt’s only slightly surprised to find that his dad is out of the office when he stops by after school to put some time in and man the phone. He settles down at his desk, opening his laptop, one eye on the phone, ready to answer if needed.

Burt’s absence plays with Kurt, though, and before Kurt knows what he’s doing, he’s pushing away from his physics homework and darting into his dad’s office. Kurt crosses the small space to the safe and crouches down in front of it.

16\. 10. 03. 09.

The safe clicks open.

Kurt goes for the murder file immediately, flicks it open and searches for the crime scene photo of Quinn’s bedroom. It’s exactly where Kurt found it last time, tucked towards the back.

And – oh God, he was right.

There, innocent among the organised mess of Quinn’s room, is the backpack. Jewelled, the news report had said. Bedazzled, Quinn had called it.

Hands shaking, Kurt pulls up the picture on his phone, of the shoes and backpack that helped convict Sandy Ryerson of Quinn’s murder. It had been solid evidence in the trial, of course – a way to place him at the scene of the crime. Why else would a middle-aged creep have a teenager’s shoes and backpack in his basement?

But Sandy Ryerson couldn’t have taken the backpack when he killed Quinn.

Kurt slumps down, leaning his head against the cool metal of the safe. “What on earth is going on, Quinn?”


	10. Chapter 10

It takes all of two days for the Purity Test to become William McKinley High’s latest craze.

It makes sense, to Kurt at least, why this is the case. There’s always been this obsession with sex among teenagers – like it’s somehow wired into their DNA that they define their lives by it – and the students of McKinley High are no exception. Drama and gossip at high school have always consisted of two things: who’s a _slut_ and who’s a _prude._

Neither of the identities are ones to have. If you’re a slut, you’re labelled as easy and _cheap._ If you’re a prude, then you’re uptight and sanctimonious.

At least, that’s how it appears to work with girls. For some reason, slutty guys are _studs._ Guys who are prudish are _rare._

And that’s what this whole Purity Test thing boils down to: who’s a slut and who’s not.

By the second day, near everyone has taken the test – an online quiz which you log into using your school account – and gotten their score, including Sam.

“C’mon,” Kurt niggles him, reaching for the printout with the score on it. “Spill it. You know you can’t keep it from me forever.”

“I can try,” Sam declares valiantly, inching away from Kurt on the sofa and holding the printout just out of Kurt’s reach.

“You can fail,” Kurt repeats, drawing closer. “Come on, just tell me. I’ll keep it a secret, I swear.”

Sam scoots even further away, crowding himself right into one corner of the sofa. “There’s something about that face – why don’t I trust it?” He pauses. “Oh yeah, I know you.”

Kurt makes a decision. He dives across the sofa, grappling with Sam for the printout. Sam tries to push Kurt away, but they’re fairly evenly matched. Sam may be on the synchronised swimming team, but Kurt was a Cheerio and still has enough muscle mass to hold his own.

Kurt ends up practically pinning Sam to the sofa as he tries to wrestle the printout out of the blond’s hand, all the while Sam continues to try and push Kurt off him.

“Sam, we’ve talked about this,” comes a voice from the doorway.

Both Sam and Kurt freeze in place, suddenly realising what this looks like. Trying to look dignified, Kurt pushes up off Sam, allowing the other boy to sit up, and they both turn in synch to face the figure in the doorway.

Sam’s mom, Mary Evans, is standing, expression leaning towards the amused, in the doorway with her arms crossed.

“Hi, Mom,” Sam says, striving for nonchalance, but falling flat.

Mary looks between the two boys critically. Kurt does his best to surprise the urge to flinch under the scrutiny. Eventually, Mary straightens up. “Good afternoon to you too, Sam,” she says, before she turns her gaze to Kurt. “You must be Kurt.”

Kurt smiles and waves awkwardly. “That’s me.”

“Well,” Mary says, still staring at Sam and Kurt. “I guess I’ll just leave you to it, boys.”

“Bye Mom,” Sam says, but it sounds more like _dear God, dear Lord, please just **go.**_

“Bye, Mrs. Evans,” Kurt adds politely.

She waves at them as she walks away.

Almost the moment that Mary is out of earshot, Kurt turns to face Sam again, and then promptly bursts out laughing.

“It’s not funny,” Sam insists. “I’ll probably get another talk tonight like _you know you can tell us anything, honey. We’ll love you no matter what, you know that, right?_ God, sometimes I swear that they _want_ me to be gay, just so that they can prove how liberal and progressive they are.”

Kurt doesn’t point out that having parents that accepting is kind of amazing; he just shakes his head. “Not that,” he says, pointing at the printout. “Ninety-one? Where’d you drop the nine points, Sam?”

Sam flushes bright red.

\--

Glee post-Purity Test is the most fun the club’s ever been for Kurt. Everyone is so preoccupied with their new labels – and it still makes Kurt crack up that someone has _quantified_ sluttiness like this – that they’re content to completely ignore Kurt. Kurt’s completely content with this new status-quo. At least, he is, until Jesse St. James, declares himself a ‘sixty-nine’, and, well, Kurt just has to laugh.

“What are you laughing at, _freak_?” Rachel bites back at Kurt almost the second the sound has left his mouth.

“I just find it funny,” Kurt says with a shrug. “How you’re so fully behind Jesse when I know for a fact his score is a whole eleven points lower than yours. Wonder how that happened, hmm?”

Rachel flushes bright red at Kurt’s comment, but she still manages to spit out a vehement, “No one cares what you think, Hummel. Not anymore.”

Kurt smiles falsely. “ _You_ seem to care a bit about what I think, Rachel,” he replies, tone light.

Rachel sniffs at him, but before she can say anything, Jesse jumps in to her defence. “He’s just jealous, Babe,” Jesse tells Rachel, before he turns to Kurt. “Be honest, Freakshow, did you join Glee just so you could get closer to Finn?”

The question draws Kurt up short. Where the _hell_ did that come from? Sure, he used to have a crush on Finn, and _sure,_ he wasn’t exactly subtle about it, but he’s never once made a move towards the quarterback and given the history there with Quinn, he’s never even going to think about it again.

He glances across the room at Finn without thinking and spots the quarterback staring awkwardly back. He looks like he doesn’t know what to think – like he doesn’t _want_ to know what to think.

Kurt doesn’t let his confusion show. “No,” he shoots back, making sure he’s clear just how very ironic he’s being. “I joined so I could get closer to _you._ ”

For some reason, his statement doesn’t have the immediate effect he thought it would. There’s no comment about being too _trashy_ or _freakish_ or _faggy_ for Jesse; instead, Rachel just grips tighter onto her boyfriend’s hand, like she’s afraid he’ll bolt any second. Then, the moment passes and Rachel _sneers_ at Kurt.

“You always were the – what’s the word? – _aspirational_ type, weren’t you, Hummel?” she asks lightly, but she the way she says _aspirational_ makes it more like _deluded_ and _pathetic._

Kurt opens his mouth to speak, but promptly slams it shut upon Mr Schue’s sudden entrance. The teacher bounces around the room, before he announces ‘indie rock’ week with a haphazard scrawl of writing across the whiteboard.

As the club starts to get moving, falling into the same old routines as every session, the tension doesn’t really dissipate. Every so often, Kurt catches Rachel glaring at him across the room and Finn never really stops looking like he wants to be someplace else.

Kurt starts counting down the minutes until he can get out of this hellhole.

\--

Somehow, getting slushied never seems to be something Kurt gets used to.

It doesn’t happen often – not since Kurt made it clear what happened to those who crossed him – but it’s happened enough times that Kurt’s _really_ getting tired of it.

Kurt feels the ice collide with his face, harsh and severe against his skin. His first thought is of the stinging pain in his eyes, and then the next turns to the laughter he can hear around him. He brings his hands up and wipes the red mush out of his eyes and then flat out _glares_ at the person in front of him.

Jesse St. James, unlike Finn, doesn’t look apologetic. He’s smirking at Kurt and he just looks so _freaking_ pleased with himself that Kurt has to hold back on his instinct to smack the smile straight off his face.

Physical violence isn’t what Kurt does. It will never be his modus operandi; Kurt picks the fights he knows he can win.

Physical violence, however, is definitely something Noah Puckerman does.

The crash of Jesse’s back impacting the lockers cuts through the rabble of the hallway. Suddenly, Puck’s there, his arm against Jesse’s neck, and snarling into the singer’s face.

“You got a death wish?” Puck all but growls at Jesse.

Jesse looks to be working hard to suppress the urge to flinch. As it stands, he’s no longer grinning, and almost seems to shrink under Puck’s gaze. “Look, man,” he stammers. “I don’t have a problem with you, okay?”

Puck remains up in Jesse’s personal space for a few moments longer, waiting until it seems like Jesse’s either going to pass out or throw up, before he releases the singer. He backs away, shifting his leather jacket over his shoulders and fixes his gaze on Jesse.

“Just so we’re clear,” he states, and then backs away, nodding at Kurt. “Hummel,” he says.

Kurt doesn’t correct him with ‘It’s Kurt,’ – he kind of just stands still. Everyone else in the corridor seems to be following his lead, staring at the scene before them, quietly disbelieving. Well, almost everyone, because Kurt feels a hand slip inside his, and he looks up to meet Tina’s heavily eye-linered eyes.

“Come on,” she says quietly. “Let’s get you cleared up.”

**\--**

Tina drops into a seat next to Mike at the lunch table. “Sorry I’m late,” she says. “There was a bit of an incident with a slushie.”

Across the table, Matt laughs. “Yeah, I heard about that,” he says. “Heard St. James nailed Hummel between classes.”

Mercedes snorts into her milkshake. “You’d know all about _nailing_ the freak, wouldn’t you, Matt?”

Matt doesn’t even bat an eyelid. “It’s okay,” he says. “You’re just acting out because _you_ couldn’t nail Hummel, no matter how hard you tried. I don’t get why you were so into him. Kid’s a freak, pure and simple.”

Tina rolls her eyes. “No, come on guys, be nice,” she chides them lightly. “Kurt’s actually kind of cool. He’s in Glee with us.” Tina directs the last part to Sugar Motta, a rich heiress who sometimes hangs around with their group. Sugar apparently doesn’t have time for Glee, as she’s instead concentrating on learning to mix drinks or something like that.

Sugar rolls her eyes and Tina doesn’t have the heart to tell her that the action makes the other girl look pathetically vapid. “Whatever,” she says. “I could care less what sort of orgies you get up to in _Glee Club._ ”

Accepting the brush off for what it is, Tina turns to Mike. “Speaking of Kurt,” she tells him. “I broke into your locker to lend him your dancing clothes again. I hope you don’t mind.”

Mike smiles and brushes a piece of hair away from Tina’s face. In silent-Mike-language that means it’s fine.

Across the table, Mercedes sneers. “Hope you boil them afterwards.”

Sugar clicks her nails against the cafeteria table top and scrunches up her nose. “I’d burn them,” she says. “You don’t know where he’s been.”

Matt laughs again. “This coming from the girl who got an _sixty-four_ on the Purity Test.”

“Shut _up,_ ” Sugar says to Matt, before turning to the rest of the group. “I did _not._ ”

“Yeah, it was a sixty- _three_ —”

Sugar slaps Matt. “Says the forty- _seven_ ,” she retorts, making the rest of the table gape.

“Forty-seven, Matt? Seriously?” Mike asks.

Matt shrugs unashamedly. “And like twenty of those points are because I haven’t dabbled in same-sex sex.” He pauses, before he adds, “Not that there’s anything wrong with dabbling – I mean, girl-on-girl? That’s hot.”

“You can say what you want, Matt,” Mercedes states from across the table, “but the answer to your threesome question is – and always will be – no.”

“Don’t knock it before you’ve tried it,” Matt declares, shaking his finger at Mercedes. “You never know – you might like it.”

“You’re such a pig,” Tina says, but it’s more out of exasperation than it is disgust.

Mike laughs softly into her ear. “You tell him,” he says.

“What’s your score, then?” Tina turns to Mike, placing her face inches from his, their noses almost scraping.

Mike smiles shyly. “Ninety-seven,” he admits.

Tina smiles back. “I’m dating a saint,” she murmurs. “Say, want to try and knock a few points off that score after school?”

\--

Kurt meets Sam after school at Hummel Investigations, arriving shortly after the blond. He greets Sam with a cheery, “Hello, Mr Ninety-One!”

Sam looks up from his work. “Like your score is any better,” he shoots back.

Kurt shrugs. “Didn’t take it.” At Sam’s look, he feels he has to explain. “What’s the point? I mean, everyone at school already thinks I’m some sort of gay hustler, and the only labels I really want to apply to myself are the ones I choose.”

“I don’t think you’re some sort of gay hustler,” Sam says loyally.

Kurt laughs. “You’re probably alone there, Sam, I’m afraid.”

Sam rolls his eyes, reaching across the table for his laptop. “Come on, it’s not that bad,” he pushes. “We’ll do the test together.”

“Yeah, because that’s going to make me feel a whole lot better about my supposed promiscuity,” Kurt says, but doesn’t move to stop Sam as he opens up the laptop and loads the web-page. “You’re so innocent you make _Bambi_ look downright devious.”

“I resent that,” Sam starts, but breaks off. “Oh. My. God.”

“What?” Kurt scrambles so he can see the computer screen. “What is it?”

“ _Not that innocent_?” Sam reads aloud. “ _Buy the results of anyone’s Purity Test. Ten dollars will let you know if you’re dating an angel from heaven, or a hottie from hell._ ” Sam pauses. “That’s messed up. You could go on here and buy _anyone’s_ test?”

Kurt feels a smile working its way up onto his face. “I never thought I’d say this,” he states. “But I kind of can’t wait for school tomorrow.”


	11. Chapter 11

Kurt was right about school the next day.

It’s complete and utter pandemonium in the hallways, with catcalls and cat-fights, screams of _lying bastard_ and _dirty slut._ Some jock darts out in front of Kurt, chasing a girl, miming a cow-girl action, and even though it’s a completely asshole-ish thing to do, Kurt couldn’t care less.

He’s loving every second of this.

Sam catches Kurt’s eye across the corridor and they share an amused glance.

\--

Glee isn’t much better than the rest of school.

Mr Schue’s kind of out of touch with his students it seems, as he has _no idea_ what’s going on. He looks totally lost as Rachel tries to rip out Santana’s hair, or as half the guys in the club have to work to restrain the normally quiet Rory as he tries to launch himself at Finn.

It’s hilarious.

Mike turns to Kurt. “Enjoying the drama?” he asks.

Kurt grins. “This is better than TV,” he tells Mike. “Completely and utterly unscripted chaos.” He turns his head to face Mike, frowning when he spots the not entirely at ease expression on Mike’s face. “You okay?” he asks.

Mike bites his lip. “It’s Tina,” he admits. “I just haven’t seen her today is all. I’m kind of worried.”

Kurt shrugs. “I’ll keep an eye out for her,” he says. “I’ll drop you a text if I come across her.”

\--

Kurt finds Tina three hours later, crying in a stall in the girls’ bathroom.

“You doing a Hermione impression, Tina?” Kurt asks, squeezing himself into the stall beside her. “Tina? You okay?”

Tina sniffs, shaking her head.

“Okay,” Kurt says. “Any reason?”

Before Tina can answer, however, the phone in her hand buzzes with a new text. Without really meaning to, Kurt looks over as the message comes in.

_Slut._

Kurt frowns at the text. “Tina, what’s going on?” he asks.

The phone buzzes again. _Whore._ Again. _Liar._ Again. _Cheater._ Again. _Skank._ Again. _22._

Each added text is like another strike at Tina, who slumps further down the more she reads. Kurt snatches the phone away from her grip.

“Tina, who’s sending these?” he asks, glaring at the ‘private number’ listed at the top of the contacts page.

Tina inhales deeply. The phone buzzes again. Kurt turns it off.

“What’s going on, Tina?” Kurt presses as gently as he can manage.

Tina straightens slightly. “Haven’t you heard?” she asks morosely. “I’m a dirty skank.”

Kurt gives Tina an incredulous look. “Tina,” he starts, but she cuts him off.

“Someone posted a test for me,” Tina says. “I didn’t take the test – God, _why didn’t I take the test?_ – but now everyone’s saying that I’ve done these _things_ —”

“Just so we’re clear,” Kurt says, “there’s nothing wrong with doing those _things_ as you’ve so charmingly put it.”

Tina manages a watery smile. “There is in high school.”

\--

“Kurt – you _fix_ things, right?”

“Hello Mike,” Kurt says genially as he exits his class and heads to his locker. “Nice to see you too.”

Mike ignores Kurt’s not-so-subtle jibe. “Yeah, but you _fix_ things, right, Kurt?” Mike presses, trailing after Kurt on the way to his locker.

Kurt sighs, shifting the weight of his satchel on his shoulder. “Sometimes,” he says.

It’s day three of the Purity Test Debacle, and more reputations have been made and broken in the past seventy-two hours than in the entirety of Kurt’s high school career previous. Even the drama is starting to get monotonous, and Kurt’s pleasure at the chaos has died down to a small, constant smile.

“Tina didn’t post that test, Kurt,” Mike says sharply. “I know she didn’t.”

Kurt rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’d gathered. I’m pretty sure that Tina wouldn’t know what to do with a guy’s junk if someone handed her a labelled diagram.”

“Don’t be mean.”

“Sorry.”

“Look,” Mike goes on, “can’t you just … get the test taken down or something? Tina’s refusing to come to school until it’s all over.”

“I think you’re greatly overestimating my computer skills,” Kurt replies. “I’m limited to control-alt-delete and judicious use of the off button.”

“Then can’t you find out who posted it?” Mike asks. “Just—Tina says that everyone thinks she’s the biggest slut to walk the halls of McKinley…” Mike trails off at the sight of Kurt’s locker.

Scrawled across the front of the yellow metal in red paint is a bright _18._

“Well,” Kurt says, taking in his locker. “Second biggest.”

\--

“ _Have you ever had sex in a public place?_ ” Kurt reads. “ _Have you ever faked an orgasm?_ ”

“Jesus Christ,” Sam mutters, leafing through his copy of Kurt’s test. “This reads like _Fifty Shades of Grey_.”

“Oh no, Sam,” Kurt says, “we haven’t reached the best part. _Have you ever engaged in sex with multiple partners? Have you ever had sex while under the influence of drugs? Have you ever had sex with members of a sports team?_ Wow, seems like some of the football team have been hiding some pretty big secrets from their girlfriends.”

“Kurt,” Sam starts, the joking tone lost from his voice. “This isn’t—”

“No, no, Sam,” Kurt cuts in. “ _This_ is the best part – _have you ever had sex with your best friend’s significant other behind his/her back?_ And, oh look, I checked ‘more than once’.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Sam points out.

Kurt smiles bitterly. “No,” he says. “You don’t.”

Sam opens his mouth, then closes it. “Oh,” he says, comprehension dawning on his face. “You and Finn—”

“If you value your continued possession of working genitals,” Kurt interrupts, “you won’t finish that sentence, Sam.”

Sam – very wisely – doesn’t. “So,” he says instead. “You didn’t post this test.”

Kurt gives Sam a flat look. “I don’t even know what half the things on this list are,” he deadpans.

“Well, then, who did?”

It’s … a _very_ good question, actually. After an incident last year that involved Kurt’s school email being used to spread a rumour that he had VD, Kurt’s made an effort to keep his password as close to his chest as it is un-crackable.

The list of people who would do something like this to Kurt is long, sure, but the list of people with the ability to do so is much, much shorter.

“What about the AV nerds?” Sam asks suddenly.

“What about them?”

Sam shrugs. “They’re the only people in school that I can think of with the sort of tech-savvy required to carry this out,” he says.

Kurt frowns. “Working on the assumption that the same person who posted my test posted Tina’s, what on earth do they have against her?”

Sam shrugs again. “Money?” he offers. “Maybe they were paid.”

“By whom?” Kurt snorts. “I mean, sure, I’m willing to accept that there are people out there who hate me enough to pay to have this shitshow of a test plastered over the web, but Tina? She’s one of the most well-liked girls in school, Sam. She’s practically a freakin’ saint.”

“Just because she doesn’t throw slushies in your face, doesn’t make her perfect, Kurt,” Sam points out softly.

“No,” Kurt shoots back, “but the fact that she doesn’t treat me like trash puts her well above average.”

“Kurt,” Sam says forcefully. “You don’t have to be a bad person to do bad things.”

Kurt opens his mouth to say something back – something cutting and derisive – but the words catch in his mouth.

_“Do you really want that fat cow stealing your spotlight, Kurt?”_

“No,” he eventually relents. “No, I guess not.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap on the Purity Test Debacle. Things are goingt to start to get more interesting in the coming parts, I promise :)

**Part Twelve**

“Tell me, Kurt,” the cheerio stood in front of him sneers, “did Quinn know you and Finn were going at it?”

Kurt doesn’t react. Anything he says can and will be used against him in a court of high school law, and it’s best to just take the high-road and deny his enemies any more ammo. They’ll get bored of this soon – they have to, because his slutty reputation isn’t exactly anything new – and move onto the next shiny new attraction. Hopefully that someone will prove to be more willing to put up with this bullshit than Kurt.

Against his will, Kurt’s eyes catch on Finn’s form as the lofty football-player makes his way through the hallway. He’s surrounded by his usual posse – jocks and socialites alike – and, Kurt bitterly notes, doesn’t seem to be suffering to quite the same degree as Kurt.

Suddenly, Kurt feels his entire body slam into a wall of lockers. Breath knocked out of him and fearing for the welfare of the camera in his bag, Kurt looks up to his attacker, ready to do _something_ , be it a verbal evisceration or a stab at humiliation, when—

“Dude, not cool.”

And _colour him surprised_ – Finn Hudson is standing sternly in front of Rich Neanderthal No. 1, frowning sincerely.

“What?” the guy chokes out. “You defending your butt-buddy now, Hudson?”

Finn rolls his eyes – an expression that looks so very out of place on his face – and says, “No, but I am trying out this new thing. It’s called _Not Being An Asshole_ , asshole.”

Kurt chooses that moment to join the conversation. “You know, Hirson,” he addresses the jock. “For someone so convinced of their heterosexuality, you aren’t half interested in my sex life. Are you really that desperate for spank-bank material?”

As Hirson moves to lunge at Kurt, Finn cuts across him. “You know that I wouldn’t have done that to Quinn, Josh,” he says firmly, “so back off. Leave Kurt alone.”

Josh snorts. “Everyone knows the little homo had a thing for you, Hudson—”

Finn shoves Josh roughly. “ _Don’t_ call him that.”

Re-adjusting his clothes, Josh backs off. “Whatever, Hudson,” he says. Chancing one last look at Kurt, who has his eyebrow poised dangerously, face just reading, _go on, try it_ , Josh twists his face into a jeer. “See you around, Homo.”

Kurt watches Josh’s retreat balefully, then turns to Finn. “Alert air control,” he says sharply. “Finn Hudson actually being decent. God forbid.”

“Kurt, I—”

But Kurt shakes his head. “You’ve just managed to secure yourself a place on the list of people I _would_ spit on if they were on fire,” he tells him. “I wouldn’t jeopardise that if I were you.”

A brief look of conflict crosses Finn’s face before he grins lopsidedly at Kurt. “Later, Kurt.”

When Kurt watches Finn leave, he finds an absence of bitterness at the sight of the large football player’s back. It’s not like they’re back to how they were before, but it’s a start.

Across the hallway, Kurt spots the face of the person he’s been looking for all morning. He catches Lauren Zizes’ eye, and beckons her over with a finger.

\--

Kurt knocks quietly before entering Tina’s room. He’d received an invasive stare from Tina’s mom when she answered the front door, and Kurt could see the cogs turning in her head as she placed his face.

“Hey,” Kurt says as he pushes the door open. “I brought your assignments.”

Tina looks up from where she’s curled up in bed. “Thanks. Just put them over there.”

Kurt nods and walks silently over to the space on Tina’s desk that she’s indicated. He’s unloading his bag, when she speaks again.

“How do you do it?”

Kurt tilts his head at her. “Do what?”

Tina shifts under the covers. “Deal with it – everything.”

“Do you want the honest answer or the one that everyone else will tell you?” Kurt asks with a sigh.

“… Honest.”

Kurt abandons the assignments and perches on Tina’s bed. “Honestly,” he says. “You don’t. Dealing with it implies some sort of brief mourning period, then you’re fine, you’ve moved on. Truth is, it sticks with you, always there, and you can take as many showers as you want, can scrub your skin raw, but it’ll still be there when you’re done, beneath your skin, burning you from the inside out. So, you learn to cope. Compartmentalise. Focus on the things you can change, can scrub away at, and over time, or so I’ve heard, the burning fades.”

“That’s … dark.”

Kurt shrugs. “Laymen’s terms, Tina: get tough, get even.”

\--

_Get tough, get even._

The toughness has to come from Tina, Kurt knows. Getting even, however – that, Kurt is more than willing to help with.

Talking to Lauren Zizes hat morning had been an utter dead-end. According to her computer know-how, finding out anyone’s password at school isn’t hard. The faculty adviser for the Audio-Visual Club just so happens to be McKinley’s resident computer-whisperer and he apparently has a nasty habit of leaving himself logged on.

Which narrows the suspect pool down to … everyone at McKinley.

It’s been bugging him, though, right from the start of this case. Why Tina? She’s – and he means this in the nicest way possible – inoffensive. She and Mike are well and truly removed from the McKinley High gossip machine—

Wait.

Oh, he’s been _such_ an idiot.

\--

Kurt strides through the halls of McKinley with a purpose, satchel slung over his shoulder and boots thudding against the ground. He neatly slides in front of Rory, taking hold of the handles on Artie’s wheelchair, and leans down so that his face is bare inches from Artie’s ear. “You and I need to have a little chat.”

He pushes Artie into the nearest room and slams the door shut behind him.

Artie’s calm façade is at least a small bit impressive. “What do you want, Kurt?” he asks, and Kurt supposes he does deserve points for remembering that Kurt has a first name.

“Oh, I don’t know, Artie,” Kurt says, unshoulder his bag and throwing it down on one of the cluttered side-tables. “I guess an apology might be a good place to start.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Arties says.

Kurt raises his eyebrows. “Really? Gee whiz, you might want to get your memory looked at, then.” He places his hands on his hips. “Let me refresh it for you. Over the summer, Tina humiliated you. We’ve all heard about the very public break up – the screaming match at Lima Mall – and most of all we’ve all heard about how Tina most definitely got the last word when you were escorted from the premises by mall cops after you started to throw your shoes at her. And, well, the next time you saw her she was dating Mike Chang, who is, frankly, everything you are not – namely, decent. So what do you do? You swear revenge.

“The Purity Test was just too good of an opportunity to pass up. An opportunity to ruin Tina’s flawless reputation forever. So you log on using her account details – the ones you lifted off your club’s faculty advisor computer – and you start to tick boxes. And wow, by the time you’re done, Tina is quite possibly the biggest slut in all of McKinley.” Kurt smiles without humour. “But that’s not true is it? Because that title _really_ belongs to me.”

Artie is staring stonily at Kurt. “You have any way to prove all of this?”

Kurt shrugs. “Not yet. I’m sure it’ll come to me – probably around the time that Lauren Zizes hands over the IP address of the person who posted Tina’s test.”

The colour drains off Artie’s face. Kurt has to bite back a smile. _Score._

“Anyway, I could care less about all of that,” Kurt says. “What I want to know is _why me?_ Why did you post that test for me, Artie? Tina, I get, but—” He shakes his head. “What did I ever do to you?”

Artie snorts. “Tina _broke up_ with me,” he spits, “because of _you_.”

The shock Kurt feels must show on his face, because Artie laughs at it.

Kurt swallows. “So you did post those tests,” he says carefully.

“Yes, Kurt,” Artie says. “I posted those tests. Tell me – did I get close? I mean, you heard things, but you can never be sure how much has been edited out by the rumour mill. And, well, given your reputation, I wasn’t sure if an eighteen was being a bit generous.”

Kurt exhales forcefully, steadying himself. “You’re an asshole,” he says. “You’re also live on air.”

Artie blinks.

Kurt’s brave front builds itself back up again, slotting into place over his face as he smiles sardonically at Artie. “Would you look at that?” he asks rhetorically. “We’re in the AV clubroom.” He lifts up his bag from where he dropped it on the side-table. “And here’s the school intercom. Say hi to the children, Artie.”

“You—”

“Careful,” Kurt warns mockingly. “Under-eighteens are listening.”

And with that, Kurt picks up his satchel and walks out of the room. He should feel smug, but all he feels is a deep, uncomfortable stirring in the pit of his stomach.

_Did I get close?_

\--

“How are you?” Kurt asks as he approaches Tina in the hallways three days later.

Tina smiles demurely. “Everyone keeps coming up to me and saying that they never believed what people were saying about me.” She sounds happy. “Thank you, Kurt.”

Kurt shrugs. “It’s what I do, Tina.”

Tina scrunches up her face at him, then says, “About what you told me, Kurt.” Kurt quirks an eyebrow. “Getting tough – that was good advice. And I needed that. The getting even part, though – you might want to rethink it.”

She catches sight of Mike across the hall and waves him over before turning back to Kurt. “You do have friends, Kurt. More than you realise.”


End file.
